


Delicate Tension

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [10]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Cameras, College, Deaf Clint Barton, Discussions of Past Trauma, Emo!Bucky Barnes, Feelings Realization, Fingerfucking, First Kiss, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, but the parents suck so much, punk!Clint Barton, terrible puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: "You got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere. Maybe we make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere."-Tracy Chapman, Fast CarClint and Bucky drive cross country to attend Becca's high school graduation ceremony. A road trip AU.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860367
Comments: 174
Kudos: 255
Collections: Clintucky Fried Bunnies





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a "there was only one bed road trip AU" and then suddenly ballooned into this monster of a fic. I'm putting it under the FPF series because I did technically write it as part of that series, but just so you know the porn doesn't show up until a couple chapters in. 
> 
> Amazing art all done by the immeasurably talented [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/) , please go give him some love.
> 
> As usual, thanks to my discord pals for cheering me on. This one was SO fun to write, and would never have happened without you. <3 All my love.

Bucky slams the door to his dorm room and hurls his backpack across the floor, remembering _just_ a second too late that his laptop is in there. It slides over the shitty linoleum, slamming into his desk with a solid thud.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, and drops onto his bed, staring across the room at the drab cinderblock walls, phone clenched tightly in his right hand. He wants to smash it. Wants to hurl it across the room and shatter it into a million pieces.

He glances at the screen again. _Call me when you can_ , says the text from his mother.

“I don’t _want_ to call you,” he mutters as he taps her name, “because I know what you’re going to say, and it’s just going to piss me off more.”

Sure enough, as soon as she answers, she launches into her speech. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but we had to cancel the plane tickets.”

“Of course you fucking did,” he says. “What’s the excuse this time?”

“James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you _dare_ curse at me.”

“Why did you cancel them?”

“Your father and I agreed that the money is better spent on other things. It’s just a high school graduation, darling. There’s no need for you to be there.”

Bucky drops his head into his hand, pressing the cool metal of his prosthetic against his forehead. “Ma, I promised Becca.”

“Oh, sweetheart. She’ll get over it. We probably won’t go either, you know.”

“You won’t—” Bucky cuts off before he loses it, sheer frustration boiling through him. He forces his voice to be calm. “Ma, this is really important to her.”

“It’s just high school, dear. Not like it’s anything big.”

Jesus Christ. He’s going to scream. “Fine.”

“James—”

“That’s not my fucking name,” he snaps, and hangs up. She immediately calls back, but he lets it ring, glaring at it. He knew it. He fucking knew it.

The door pushes open, and his roommate comes in, an excited smile on his face. He’s some fresh-faced kid from Queens, Patrick or Preston or something. Bucky can’t be bothered to remember his name. It’s bullshit anyway, that they assigned him a last-minute roommate, and that he’s a freshman just makes it worse.

“Hey,” the kid says. “I’m—”

“Don’t talk to me,” Bucky says.

“What happened?”

“Something wrong with your ears, kid? Don’t fucking talk to me.” Bucky grabs his backpack and his phone, shoving it into his pocket. “Don’t ever talk to me.”

“Sorry,” the kid mutters, looking upset. Bucky feels guilty for half a second, but then his phone rings again, and the guilt is replaced by fierce rage.

_We probably won’t go either._

“Assholes,” he mutters, and heads out the door, making sure to slam it behind himself.

He doesn’t have anywhere to go, really. His dorm room was his space, until a month ago when the campus housing department had suddenly saddled him with a roommate. The kid’s nice and all, but Bucky’s self-aware enough to know that he’s a raging, broody asshole who doesn’t do well with other people around him. Doesn’t matter how nice the kid is, Bucky doesn’t want a damn thing to do with him. Especially not when he’s in this kind of mood.

He stalks across the grounds towards the chapel. It’s not his favorite place on campus, but on a Wednesday afternoon, it’s pretty much guaranteed to be empty. He shoves open the ornate double doors, flips off the Jesus statue hanging out on the wall, and heads in towards the main sanctum.

Faint music trickles through the heavy wooden door to it. It doesn’t sound like Christian music—too fast paced, too loud, not enough sickly sweet chords. Intrigued, Bucky pushes open this door with a little less force and slides in, doing his best to stay unobtrusive.

The stage lights are on, brightening the deep black inkiness of the stage. All the usual things—the drum sets, the microphones, the music stands—are shoved off into the corner, haphazardly piled on top of each other. In the space they would usually occupy is an enormous canvas, probably taller than Bucky, and about ten feet long. It’s blank, the cream color harshly illuminated by the spotlights fixated on it.

It’s oddly inviting, that blankness. Bucky’s irrationally tempted to hurl a bucket of paint at it, just to mark it up with something. He’s not really an art person, but there’s always something about blank canvases that make his heart beat a little faster. It’s a space to be filled. A story that demands to be told.

A story about to be told, apparently, if the figure in front of the canvas has any say over it. They’re standing there, menacingly shaking a can of spray paint, and singing along loudly enough that Bucky can hear the off-key voice over the music.

He squints a little, then suddenly recognizes the spiked blond mohawk and black jacket with the faded letters across the back. A smile splits his face, the anger easing a bit, and he makes his way down the aisle, watching with amusement as the guy tosses the can from hand to hand, clearly indecisive about where to start.

The music fades down, and Bucky leans against one of the chairs. “You should draw a dick on it,” he says loudly.

Clint Barton jumps about ten feet and spins around, a furious expression on his face. “Who’s there?” he demands, shading his eyes from the press of the lights as his other hand fumbles at his phone, pausing the next song.

“The spirit of the Lord,” Bucky says, trying not to snicker. “You’re defiling my house with that sinful music, Barton.”

Clint’s expression morphs from anger to amusement. “Are you even allowed in here, Barnes? I’m like ninety percent sure you’re a vampire. Are your feet burning?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Don’t swear, Jesus is listening.” Clint sets the can down. “So what the fuck are you doing in here?”

Bucky snorts. “I’m pissed off, and my roommate is a freshman.”

“Sucks to be you.” Clint rubs the back of his neck and looks back at the canvas. “Draw a dick on it, huh? Tempting.”

Bucky moves to lean against the stage. “What, you’re not gonna ask why I’m pissed off?”

“You live in a perpetual state of pissed off,” Clint points out. “I don’t think you have any other mode, actually.” He picks up the can again, shaking it. “But sure. What was it this time?”

“Parents canceled the flight out,” Bucky says, and Clint turns to him with an incredulous expression. “Fucking called it, remember? I told you a week ago they’d change their minds.”

“Shit,” Clint says. “Sorry, man.” He holds out the can. “Wanna draw a dick?”

Bucky laughs despite himself. “No. I want to fly to Bumfuck, Iowa so I can strangle my goddamn parents, and then I want to watch my sister get her diploma like I promised.” He boosts himself up on the stage and shrugs off his backpack. “She’s valedictorian. Did I tell you that? Top of her fucking class, honors and all of that. And Ma said it wasn’t important enough for them to go.”

“Jesus,” Clint says. “She really said that? That’s fucked up.”

“So no one’s gonna be there,” Bucky says, the rage burning back into his system. “This huge milestone is gonna happen and not a single member of my family is going to be there to watch her.”

“Can you buy tickets?”

“Barton, I’ve got like...six dollars to my name. So unless you’re hiding about five-hundred bucks on you somewhere...” He eyes Clint’s jeans, which are supposed to be artfully torn, but really just look like he lost a fight with a bear.

“Quit looking at my dick,” Clint says idly, turning back to the canvas. He studies it for a moment, then lays down a large stripe of red.

“I’m looking at your pants,” Bucky corrects. There’s studs set into them at various places, and patches, and they’re basically a hot mess of denim that’s way more attractive than it has any right to be. “You realize that they’re mostly holes, right?”

“Perfect for church.” Clint lays down another stripe of red, then turns back to him with a grin. “They’re holey.”

“Oh for fucks sake,” Bucky says, leaning down to scoop up a can of yellow. “Next shitty joke you crack, I’m painting over your masterpiece.”

Clint flashes a crooked smile at him—another thing that’s more attractive than it has any right to be—and gestures at the canvas. “Not a masterpiece yet,” he says. “Do whatever you want to it. Might make you feel better.”

“Getting my ass to Iowa will make me feel better,” Bucky says, shaking the spray paint. “Anything I want?”

“Anything.” Clint crosses his arms and scowls at the canvas.

“What’s it for?”

“One of the drama teachers asked me to do a graffiti background for the spring musical.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “And you agreed?”

“I am, on occasion, helpful.” Clint shrugs. “Also, he’s paying me a hundred bucks.” He lays down another stripe of red, and suddenly there’s _shape_ on the canvas where there wasn’t before. It’s unformed as of yet, but Bucky can see where it’ll go, see the possibilities in the curving lines of the paint.

Clint pokes at his lip ring with his tongue, then nods. “Never mind. Give me that.” He holds out his hand. “You lost your chance.”

“That’s fine.” Bucky hands him the spray paint.

“So can’t you take a train or something?”

“Did you miss the part where I’m poor?”

“Train tickets are expensive?”

“I looked last week. It’ll be almost two hundred. Probably more.” He takes a deep breath, feeling the urge to punch something. “It’s not fucking fair. I promised her I’d go.”

Clint picks up another can, outlining a couple stripes of black in big sweeping movements. “It’s on Saturday?”

“Yeah.”

He nods. “Okay. We can make that.”

Bucky stares at him. “We?”

Clint nods again, not looking at Bucky as he continues painting. Bucky watches with slight awe as he moves across the stage, easily navigating his way through the supplies strewn around the floor. Clint’s the clumsiest guy he’s ever met, but when he paints, it’s a different story. He moves like a dancer, graceful and focused, intent on his work. It’s beautiful. For a moment, Bucky wishes he had his camera—he’d love to capture the intensity of Clint’s expression, the contemplative way he’s tilting his head, the way he’s—

“Yeah,” Clint finally says, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts. “We.” He flips the paint can in his hand. “I’ll drive you.”

Bucky shoves down his usual thoughts about driving and shakes his head. “You realize that’s like...twenty hours, right? You can’t do that. I can’t ask you to do that.”

Clint flips the can again. “You’re not asking. I’m offering. Look, this is a big thing for Becca, right? And for you?” He finally looks at Bucky, still toying with his lip ring. It catches the stage lights, silver flashing bright, and Bucky suddenly has an urge to kiss it—

He shoves that thought away too, because _absolutely fucking not,_ and says, “I promised her at Christmas. We both thought our parents might not be on board, but then they bought me the tickets for my birthday, and I just...” He trails off.

“Got your hopes up,” Clint finishes.

“It’s bullshit,” Bucky snaps. “It’s fucking bullshit, I know goddamn better than to expect anything from them.”

He turns and grabs the first thing he lays eyes on—a cordless microphone—and hurls it across the room. It tumbles through the air and smacks into the crucifix at the front of the church, bouncing off with a loud crack. A little chunk of Jesus’s nose falls off with it. Bucky winces. *Oops.*

“Oooh,” Clint says, sounding amused. “God’s gonna smite you.”

“As long as it’s after graduation, I don’t give a fuck.”

Clint sighs. “Come on, man. Let me drive you. I don’t have anything else to do this weekend anyway.”

“Thought you had an exhibition?”

“Cancelled.” Clint sighs. “Sprinklers went off at the gallery, and they’re still cleaning up. We’ve been postponed for two weeks.”

Bucky picks up another microphone. “Sorry to hear that.” He holds it out. “Wanna take a shot?”

Clint grins. “Nah. I’m already going to hell, don’t need to give the big guy any more ammo against me.”

“Fair enough.” Bucky sets it down. “You really want to drive me?”

“Yeah.” Clint picks up a can of green, then shakes his head. “No, not you. Need...orange.” He spins around, scanning the cans.

Bucky tosses it to him. “You realize it’s gonna be almost a week, right? It’s a two day drive from here to there, and then the graduation, and I promised Becca I’d take her out on Sunday to celebrate. We wouldn’t be back until...Wednesday, at the earliest. You’d have to skip class.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Clint says, wiggling his eyebrows, and Bucky suddenly realizes he’s got a new piercing in the right one. “I don’t care. Odinson will understand, and the other profs will be glad to see me gone for a week.” He sighs. “Bunch of academic assholes.”

“You think everyone’s an asshole,” Bucky says.

“Not you.” Clint smirks. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You hate everybody.”

“Not you,” Bucky shoots back, and Clint looks delighted for some reason. “Okay, fine. Let’s say I agree to this. What are we gonna do about sleeping? You’re not driving twenty hours in one shot.”

“I can—”

“You’re _not_.” The words are more forceful than he means them to be, but it gets the message across. Clint’s eyes dart to his left arm, hidden in his jacket. “Don’t even try and argue.”

To his credit, Clint doesn’t. He just leans down and picks up a rag from the floor, wiping off his hands, then digs out his phone. “Okay. Plan B.”

“Who are you—”

Clint holds up a hand. “Steve,” he says, forced cheerfulness in his voice, and Bucky immediately shakes his head. “Hiya big brother, how’s it going?”

Steve’s tired voice echoes over the speaker. “Hey kid. What’s up?”

“I need some money.”

Steve sighs. “Clint—”

“It’s for a good cause,” Clint says, stepping away as Bucky tries to grab the phone from his hand. “I promise.”

“Clint, you said that last time—“

“That was for a good cause too, you know.”

“You spent it all on beer!”

“It was an _art project_ , Steven,” Clint says, sounding offended. “I was attempting to make a sculpture that illustrated the consumerist ideals of mankind, and how we attempt to drown our sorrows of living in alcohol. Not my fault if the bottles had to be empty before I could use them.” Bucky snorts, and Clint grins at him.

“Clint—“

“But this really is a good cause,” Clint continues. “Becca Barnes is graduating this year, and her parents aren’t paying to fly Bucky out there anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Steve says, “You gotta be shitting me.”

“Nope. And they’re not going either.”

“You’re serious?”

“Sadly.”

Steve sighs. “What do you need money for?”

“Gas and motels. I’m gonna drive him to Iowa.”

“O...kay,” Steve says, sounding shocked. “How much?”

Clint raises an eyebrow at Bucky, who shrugs. “I don’t know. Can you just chuck like...five hundred my way, and whatever I don’t use, I’ll pay you back?”

“Done,” Steve says immediately. “When are you leaving?”

 _Tomorrow_ , Bucky mouths.

“Tomorrow,” Clint repeats.

“I’ll send it tonight.” Steve pauses, then says, “Look, Clint, with the whole driving thing—”

“I know,” Clint interrupts. “I got it.”

Steve sounds sad. “Please promise me you’ll be careful. He’s really—”

Bucky jumps down off the stage, walking down the aisle as fast as he can, fighting the urge to cover his ears. His left shoulder burns, phantom pains spiking through his flesh. 

_Six years_ , he thinks, staring down at his hand. _Six years, and you’re still not over this shit._

Clint calls his name and he turns, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the distant splintering of metal, or the sounds of screams echoing in his ears. “Yeah, what?”

“Sorry,” Clint says, walking to the edge of the stage. “I didn’t mean for that—I’m sorry.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a second, getting himself under control. “I’m okay.”

Clint looks uncomfortable. “He’ll send me the money,” he says. “Uh...”

“I don’t really want his money,” Bucky says. “I don’t—”

 _Don’t want anything to do with him_ is on the tip of his tongue, and he bites it back, because that’s not fair. It’s not that he doesn’t want anything to do with Steve, it’s that every time he hears his voice, he remembers the accident—

Clint jumps down to the ground and walks over. “Look,” he says. “Let me make this easy for you.” He holds out his hands, and Bucky notes the smudges of paint on them. “I like your sister. I think she’s cool. I’m gonna go to her graduation to support her, because she deserves that. There’s room in my car. You’re welcome to come with, or not come with, but I would like the company.”

Bucky hates the idea of taking Steve’s money, or involving him in any way, but if it means he can get to Iowa...well, it’s probably worth it. He can save up and pay Steve back, so it’s not hanging over his head later. Clear his conscience. “I can’t really pay for anything,” he says, just so Clint knows what he’s getting into.

“That’s fine.” Clint winks at him. “I’ll be your sugar daddy.”

“Gross,” Bucky says, shoving his shoulder, but he can’t stop himself from laughing. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Road trip with a vampire?” Clint grins. “I’m definitely in. What could go wrong?”

* * *

They settle on a time to leave, and a general path to take, and Bucky leaves Clint to his painting, marginally happier than he was twenty minutes ago. He heads back to his dorm room, trying to think of what he’ll need to pack. If they’re driving, he can maybe pack a few extra cameras, since he won’t be as limited by luggage.

When he unlocks the door, the kid—Peter, he suddenly remembers—jumps to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he says, frantically gathering books. “I’ll—I’ll go.”

“Don’t bother,” Bucky says. He’s still pissed off, but knowing that he’s at least going to be able to go is easing the anger a little bit. And either way, it’s not Peter’s fault. “I’m sorry. About before. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“I—”

“I’m going to Iowa,” Bucky interrupts. “I’m leaving early tomorrow morning. I don’t care what you do in here while I’m gone as long as it’s clean when I get back. Got it?”

Peter looks surprised. “What’s in Iowa?”

“Nope. We don’t do personal questions, remember?” Bucky reaches into his closet and pulls out a Polaroid camera. It’s not his favorite, but he likes the nostalgia of it, and he sprung for an expensive one when he got it, so the pictures usually turn out okay. “All you need to know is I’m leaving, and not to trash the room while I’m gone.”

“Got it,” Peter says, looking crestfallen. Bucky feels a little guilty again, but he’s sure as fuck not gonna bare his soul to a freshman, so he just nods and continues pulling things from the closet. He’ll take the Zorki in the car with him, probably. He’s got enough film for three road trips; it’ll be good to use some of it.

He packs up the cameras and various film supplies, then suddenly remembers he should probably take clothes too, so he searches through his dresser, grabbing random things and using them to help pad the camera cases.

“Well,” Peter says, “I guess just...drive safe?”

Bucky’s hand clenches on the duffle bag, and he stares straight ahead at the wall, suddenly tense. Something about his change in posture must alert Peter, because he goes dead quiet, then carefully gets up and leaves the room.

“It’ll be fine,” Bucky says to the wall, trying very hard to see only that and not anything else. “It’ll be fine. It’s—you can do this.”

He zips the bag closed, focusing on the noise of the zipper, and the feeling of the duffle bag under his fingers, using the rough canvas to ground himself in the moment. “You can do it,” he says again, splaying his metal hand over the bag. “It’s for _Becca_.”

He swallows hard and reaches up, redoing his hair into a slightly neater bun. He needs to go do something, do anything to take his mind off what’s coming up. He’s got a couple canisters of film to develop. Should probably get those done before the trip anyway. They’re due a couple days after he gets back, and he hates trying to fight with everyone else for developing time.

Bucky snags his backpack and goes out the door, nearly tripping over Peter. “Jesus, kid,” he says, as Peter starts to apologize. “I’m not going to eat you, just go in the room. Christ.”

“Okay,” Peter says, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoulders his backpack. “I’ll be back later,’ he says, and pats Peter on the head before turning away. “See you.”

The photography building is quiet for once, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief as he steps through the door. “Hey, Natasha,” he says to the attendant, and she looks up from behind the desk. “I got some stuff to develop. Anything open?”

“All of them,” she says, studying him. “You okay? You look a little freaked.”

“I’m good,” he says. “They’re all open?”

She tucks her red hair behind her ear. “Go for it.”

Bucky pulls the canisters out of his backpack before shoving it in a locker in the main lab, then grabs an apron and goes into one of the stalls. He feels better almost as soon as he steps through the swinging doors, stress and tension melting away like water. This is his favorite place to be. He loves the inherent possibilities in developing pictures, and how it’s a surprise every time to see what comes out. It makes him set up his shots more carefully. Makes him really settle into the moment, and think about what he’s doing. No sense in wasting film on a useless shot or a bad setup.

He puts in his headphones and queues up some music—it’s a Hozier kind of day—and settles into the routine of it—cut the film off the spool, hook the end into the reel, wind it around until it’s in place. Reel goes into the canister. Rinse the film, add the developer. With every motion, his hands grow more steady, and the memories fade back into their place in the back of his mind. He knows he’ll never be rid of what happened, but here, surrounded by darkness, it’s almost impossible for him to fixate on it. It’s just him, and the music, and the images slowly appearing under his fingertips.

It’s the closest he’ll ever get to being at peace, and he clings to every single second of it he can get.

When the strips are hung up to dry, he goes back into the main lab, blinking a little bit at the brightness of the lights. It’s getting late in the day; he needs to go eat something. Maybe steal a couple snacks from the dining hall. He should probably grab something for Peter, too. A bag of Hot Cheetos would probably go further for convincing him that Bucky’s not going to rip his head off than words ever will.

He gets himself some dinner, then casually slides some snacks into his backpack. He’s pretty sure that the cashier notices, but he just raises an eyebrow at Bucky and shakes his head in a stern manner.

“Thief,” he says, as Bucky hands over some money.

“Starving artist,” Bucky counters. “I developed those pictures you wanted, by the way. You can have them when I come back.”

“You said by Friday.”

“Plans changed, Wade, I don’t want to get into it.”

Wade sighs. “So rude, Barnes. Gonna leave you a bad Yelp review.”

“Here.” Bucky hands him a package. “Apology churro.”

“Apology accepted,” Wade says, taking the churro. “When are you back?”

“Next week. You’ll get your pictures, I promise.” Bucky picks up his container. “See you later.”

Wade waves him out the door, and Bucky goes back to his dorm. Peter isn’t there, and neither are his books, so Bucky just tosses the Cheetos on his bed and sits down to eat.

His phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen, then answers. “Hi, Becks.”

“Mom told me.” Her voice is steady, but he can tell she’s been crying. “I guess you’re not coming.”

He sighs. “Don’t listen to her. I’m still coming.”

“How?”

“You remember Clint Barton, right?”

“Steve’s step-brother, right? Yeah, I remember.”

Bucky taps his fingers on the desk. “He’s driving me.”

Becca is quiet for a second, then says, “You’re driving here?”

“Yeah.” He sets the sandwich down, suddenly feeling a little sick. “Well, he is. I won’t.”

“Oh, Bucky.” She sounds worried. “I’m not—you don’t have to—I didn’t mean to make you _drive—_ ”

“Don’t,” Bucky interrupts. “I said I’d be there, and I’m coming. I _promised_ you.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“Becks!” She stops, and he takes a deep breath. “I would do anything to be there. I would fucking walk if I had to. I’m going to be there, and there’s absolutely nothing you can say to stop me. So just smile, tell me I’m the best big brother ever, and pick out a fancy dress for Sunday so I can take you out to dinner. Got it?”

She laughs. It’s tearful, but it’s a laugh. “Okay. I love you. You’re the best big brother ever.”

“I know. I’m the greatest.” He smiles. “I gotta go, I need to finish dinner and sleep. We’re hitting the road super early.”

“You text me the whole way,” she says. “Every hour.”

“Every hour. I promise. If I don’t, you can call and yell at me.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too,” he says. “Can’t wait to see you.”

Becca hangs up, and Bucky finishes his sandwich, then gets ready for bed. _See you at five_ , he texts Clint, and gets a string of angry emojis in response, which just makes him laugh.

Peter comes back as Bucky’s getting into bed. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m just getting my—”

“I brought you Cheetos,” Bucky says, pointing at them. “I’m going to sleep.”

Peter picks up the bag, then looks at him. “Thank...you?”

“You’re welcome.” Bucky shoves his pillow under his head. “I’m up early; I’ll try not to wake you.”

“Sounds good,” Peter says, still sounding confused. Bucky grins and reaches up to flick his light off. “Have fun on your trip?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, staring at the ceiling, the nervousness suddenly edging through him again. “Should be a goddamn blast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> If you want the music, I pretty much listened to [Fast Car](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxXO2ybSvfg) nonstop while writing this.
> 
> Updates Tuesdays!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But when he smiles, he lights up like he swallowed the sun. He almost seems to shine, and Bucky can’t decide if it’s because of the blond hair, or the tan skin, or just because that’s who he is.

Five in the morning comes too damn early. Bucky drags himself out of bed and dresses himself in the dark, having just enough presence of mind to keep quiet and not wake Peter. He grabs his duffel bag and his backpack, remembers at the last minute to take his keys, and quietly closes the door.

Clint is leaning against his truck, already working through a jumbo coffee. “Morning,” he says, sounding vaguely disgusted to be alive.

“Morning,” Bucky echoes, setting his bag in the back of the truck next to Clint’s. “You good to drive?”

“Been awake for an hour,” he says, holding up his coffee. “Heavily caffeinated, and ready to go. You got a map?”

“I got a phone,” Bucky says. “With GPS.”

“Mmmph.” Clint opens the door and gets in, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Bucky’s only ever seen him with his mohawk unspiked a couple of times, and it always surprises him how much he likes it. Not that the punk rock look isn’t good on him, but there’s just something about the floppy blond hair in his eyes that makes Bucky smile. Not that he really thinks about Clint _that_ way, but still. It’s cute.

Bucky takes a deep breath, then gets in the passenger side, dumping his backpack on the floor. He immediately puts the seat belt on. “Don’t need it for now, though. We need to get on I-78.”

“East or west?”

Bucky stares at him for a second, and Clint blushes, visible even in the early grey light of the dawn. “That was dumb,” he admits, and starts the car. “By the way, did you know your shirt’s on inside-out?”

Bucky glances down. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Hang on.” He undoes the seatbelt, shrugs off his jacket, and yanks his shirt over his head. “This is what I get for dressing in the dark.”

He pulls it back on—the right way this time—and glances over at Clint, who’s staring at him, looking a little bit like he’s been punched in the gut. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says after a moment, tearing his eyes away from Bucky. “Need more caffeine.” He chugs his coffee. “Okay. You ready?”

“Yeah.” Bucky pulls his seatbelt back on, tugging it a couple times for reassurance.

Clint hesitates. “Is there anything I need to know? Before we go?”

“Just...be careful.” Bucky grabs onto the door handle. “Please.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and he eases the truck out of the parking space. “I can do that.” He glances at Bucky. “You’re gonna tell me if something’s up, right?”

Bucky nods.

“I’m serious.” Clint stops at a stop sign and looks at him. “You gotta promise me. I don’t want you to freak out in the middle of the interstate because I’m going too fast or something.”

“What do you want, a fucking safe word?” Bucky tightens his grip on the door handle. “I’ll tell you, alright? Will you please stop talking about it?”

“I’m just making sure,” Clint mutters. “But fine. Be an asshole about it.”

Bucky sighs. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, easing the car forward. “I get it. You’re a big scary vampire, you can handle yourself.”

“I’m not a vampire,” Bucky sighs, but the brief moment of tension disappears with the joke, and he relaxes a little.

“Sure you’re not,” Clint says. “Which reminds me, I got you a present.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands Bucky something. “You’ll love it.”

“What the fuck,” Bucky says, taking the bulb of garlic from his hand. “Seriously?”

“You don’t want it?” Clint glances at him, a smile curving his mouth. “That doesn’t sound very non-vampire-y of you.”

“You are way too dedicated to this joke,” Bucky tells him, putting the garlic in a cup holder.

“It’s a talent.” Clint checks both ways, then pulls out onto the main road. “Alright, here we go. Road trip!”

“You’re also way too awake for five in the morning,” Bucky mutters, leaning his head against the window.

Clint waves a hand. “Maybe you’re just too grumpy, you ever think of that?” He pokes at his lip ring, toying with it before adding, “It’s cool if you want to sleep, though. I’ll just listen to music or whatever.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I have to be awake,” he says.

“Fair enough.” Clint punches the radio, and some punk rock music spills through the truck. “Direct me to the interstate, will you? I’ve only gone this way a few times.”

Bucky pulls out his phone, grateful for something to do. “It’s northeast of us,” he says.

“That’s _not_ helpful.”

“Turn left at the light.”

“That’s better.” Clint checks his blind spot, then moves left. “None of that cardinal directions bullshit, okay? I need solid things. Lefts. Rights. Landmarks.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

They make their way onto the interstate. It’s early enough that traffic isn’t too bad yet, but Bucky keeps his hand wrapped around the door handle anyway. He does his best to project a relaxed air, trying not to betray how tense he gets when other cars get close to them. Last thing he wants to do is make Clint nervous too.

“So,” Clint says. “Talk to me. Tell me about school or something.”

Bucky snickers. “You sound like my grandmother,” he says, and does his best imitation of an old-lady voice. “Tell me about school, James. Are you still taking all those lovely pictures?”

Clint laughs. “I’m just trying to make conversation,” he says. “Is it too early for that?”

“Maybe.” Bucky drums his fingers on the door handle. “I don’t know. School’s fine. Usual crap. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.” Clint sighs. “Yeah, I do.”

“Did you finish the thing you were working on yesterday?”

“Of course not. Did you see how big that canvas was? I told the drama department I’ll finish it when I get back.” He glances at Bucky. “They asked me about the crucifix, by the way. They were very curious to know how the good Lord’s nose ended up on the floor.”

Bucky grins. “And what did you tell them?”

“I said something about a miracle and got the hell out.” He shrugs. “But no, I didn’t finish. I got some of the outlines done. The rest shouldn’t be too hard.”

“What’s it going to be?”

“Supposed to be a character from the musical. I’m going for an Eduardo Kobra kind of style. The whole musical’s got Latin vibes and shit. Seemed like the right move.”

Bucky searches the name, scrolling through the brilliant murals with an increasing sense of respect. “Shit, this guy’s _awesome_.”

“Yeah he is.” Clint gets animated suddenly, one hand leaving the wheel to gesture in the air. “He does photorealistic murals but with this amazing kaleidoscope effect to them, so it gets this 3-D look. Makes your eyes freak out when you see it, because like, you _know_ the wall is flat, but the people look real. It’s so fucking cool. I wish I was half as good as that.”

“You’re good,” Bucky tells him. “I’ve seen your stuff. You’ve got a good eye.”

“I’m alright,” Clint says, ducking his head a little at the praise. “He’s the real deal.”

Bucky nods. “Well, if anyone can imitate it, it’s you.”

Clint flushes red. “Thanks,” he says. “Uh, anyway. How are...pictures?”

Bucky laughs. “Pictures are fine,” he says. “I’m taking a class with Dr. Banner for my final showcase, and I really like him. He’s a good teacher, and we have the same kind of style. He doesn’t like digital either.”

“What do you have against digital?”

“Nothing in particular. I just like film.” He digs around in his backpack and pulls out the Zorki, carefully turning it over in his hands. “It’s more real, you know? You have to be careful with it. There’s limited chances to get the shot you want, so you have to think about everything. The shutter speed, the composition, the aperture. You have to get it exact. With digital, you can adjust things on the computer. There’s second chances. But with film...what you see is what you get.” He shrugs. “I like that.”

Clint nods, expression thoughtful. “Makes sense,” he says after a moment. “Seems like something you would like.”

Bucky’s not sure what to make of that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Just settles the camera back into its case and looks out the window. It’s not until a few minutes later that he realizes he’s sitting with both hands on the bag, and not holding onto the door handle anymore.

_That’s new_ , he thinks, marveling over the fact that he’s been in the car with Clint for all of twenty minutes, and feels at ease enough to do that. He’s not sure if that’s a testament to Clint’s careful driving or how Bucky just feels relaxed around him, but either way, he’s not going to question it.

“So what is your final showcase?” Clint asks. “If you don’t mind telling me.”

“It was going to be an architecture series,” Bucky says, “but I don’t like what I’ve come up with so far. I need something better.”

“You realize the school year ends in like...two weeks, right?”

“Yes, thank you. I am aware of that.” He sighs, feeling the press of time. “Banner said something about self-portraits, but I don’t like taking pictures of myself.”

“Because you don’t show up in them?” Clint asks, looking exceedingly proud of himself.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Barton.”

“Just saying.” He laughs. “So, what are you going for, then?”

“I don’t know. Still looking for the right subject. I’ll turn in the architecture piece if I have to, but I’m not thrilled about it. I think I can do better.”

“Well,” Clint says. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” He glances over at Bucky, eyes flicking down to his hands. A smile spreads over his face, slow and steady, and he looks back at the road. Bucky wants to tell him not to read too much into it, but honestly, he likes the way Clint smiles. Like the way it lights up his face and makes him look less world-weary, even if only for a brief moment. So he keeps his mouth shut and looks out the window, watching the road pass by.

The traffic continues to build around them, but they keep just far enough ahead of it that they’re out of the city and getting through New Jersey by the time it would be an issue. Clint keeps the truck moving at a steady pace, putting the miles behind them.

“So,” he says. “Once we get into Pennsylvania, you wanna stop for breakfast?”

“There’s a Dunkin Donuts up the road here,” Bucky says, pointing at the sign.

Clint shudders. “I will not pull this truck over anywhere in New Jersey.”

“What do you have against New Jersey?”

“What’s not to have against New Jersey?”

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky says.

“Mmhmm,” Clint says. “Pennsylvania or bust. Besides, I’d like to put at least a few hours between us and the city. I was thinking if we can try and get to Chicago tonight, then we only have like five hours tomorrow.”

Bucky shakes his head. “That’s twelve hours from here,” he says. “That’s a long time for you to drive.”

“Is that not okay?” Clint shrugs. “We can try for Cleveland instead, will that be better? Breaks down to seven and nine hours, I think.” He sucks on his lip ring, then says, “Or somewhere in Indiana? You just tell me where to stop. You’re probably right, twelve might be pushing it.

Bucky skims over the map, typing in a couple different destinations. “Toledo’s exactly halfway.”

“Cool. We can stop in Toledo. Can you book a motel or something?” He shifts in his seat, then pulls out his wallet. “Here. Use my card.”

“Sugar daddy,” Bucky murmurs, taking it. Clint laughs and makes a _whatcha-gonna-do-about-it_ gesture.

Bucky finds the cheapest motel he can and books one room with two beds, mentally noting the cost. He wants to try and keep things as cheap as he possibly can. The less he owes Steve after this, the better.

“There we go,” he says, handing the wallet back. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Clint tosses it on the dashboard, then reaches up to his right ear, fiddling with his hearing aid. It’s purple, and sturdy looking, hooking over the shell of his ear in a delicate way. It must be new; Bucky’s never seen it before.

Clint looks over at him, an interesting look in his eye. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and pulls out his camera. He adjusts the settings a bit—with the way the car is bumping around, he doesn’t want it to come out too blurry. Then he looks through the viewfinder and takes a picture. Clint keeps his eyes on the road the whole time, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Bucky waits for them to turn a curve in the road, which shifts the lighting a little bit more in his favor. Then he presses himself against the window and takes another one, trying to capture the way Clint’s hands are curved over the steering wheel. He likes the contrast of the pale skin against the dark vinyl, and the hint of tattoos creeping out from under the cuffs of his black jacket. Bucky knows there’s a _lot_ of them, but he’s never actually seen all of Clint’s tattoos, and Clint’s never offered to show him.

_Kind of want to see them,_ Bucky realizes, slowly lowering the camera, and _huh_ , that’s a new thought. Maybe he _is_ thinking about Clint a little more than he should be.

“You’re still staring at me,” Clint says. “Something interesting?”

“You’re a good subject,” Bucky says, shaking himself back to reality. “Especially with the light the way it is right now.”

Clint takes the car around another curve, and the morning sunlight spills back into the car. “Whoops. Did that ruin it?”

“A bit,” Bucky says, putting the camera in his lap. “I’ll just take more later. If that’s okay.”

He shrugs. “I told you to do it. Besides, I can return the favor when we stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll draw you.” Clint sucks on his lip ring again, then adds, “If you want. You don’t have to or anything. I’m not _great_ at people, but I’m decent.”

Bucky nods. “I’d like that. Be interesting to see how you see me.” The light shifts again and he raises the camera, trying to capture Clint’s face this time, focusing on the way his hair is kind of flopped down, almost like it’s sad about something. It’s soft, and so blond, and with the way the light is catching it, it almost seems to glow. Bucky wants to touch it, wants to reach out and run his fingers through it, just to see if it would light him up too—

“Pennsylvania,” Clint announces, and Bucky jumps a little, settling back down into his seat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“I could eat,” Bucky says, clearing his throat. “Uh. Whatever you want is fine.”

“I like breakfast burritos,” Clint says. “And coffee. I need more coffee.”

Bucky eyes the jumbo cup. “Uh...don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Clint says, sounding scandalized. “How _dare_ you?”

Bucky sets the camera down and holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Ohhhkay. Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“The very thought,” Clint mutters, still looking offended. “There’s no such thing.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky tells him. “Very, very sorry. I’ll find us somewhere with burritos.”

“Hmmph.”

Bucky snaps one more picture of him, leaning forward to try and get the best angle of his irritated face, then pulls out his phone to find a place for breakfast.

* * *

They end up at a little place just off the interstate, about forty minutes over the border. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it little shack, but they have coffee, breakfast, and a bathroom, which is enough to make Bucky happy. He sits at a little table by the door while Clint flirts with the lady at the register. She’s old enough to be his grandmother, but Clint lays on the charm anyway, smiling and laughing, pushing up his sleeve to show her his tattoos. Bucky pulls off the lens off his camera, then reaches into his bag and screws on the adapter and his zoom lens. He snaps a couple pictures of the lazy way Clint’s leaning against the counter, the way his smile spills over his face.

It’s a study in contrasts, really. He’s wearing combat boots and black joggers adorned with a purple stripe up the side that’s so dark it nearly blends in. He’s still got the black jacket, unzipped now to reveal a grey shirt underneath—the only spot of color on him, if that can really be called color. But when he smiles, he lights up like he swallowed the sun. He almost seems to _shine_ , and Bucky can’t decide if it’s because of the blond hair, or the tan skin, or just because that’s who he is.

It’s hard to reconcile, sometimes, this version of Clint with what he knew growing up. Once upon a time, when he and Steve had been best friends, Clint was just the annoying little tag-along. The younger step-brother that they were tasked with keeping an eye on. Bucky had _hated_ him back then. He resented the intrusion, and the way it would change his and Steve’s plans for the day. And Clint had hated it too, constantly grumbling about _don’t need babysitters_ and _I can take care of myself._

Then Clint had gotten sick right around when he turned eight—spinal meningitis, Bucky vaguely remembers—and he’d lost most of his hearing because of it. He’d gotten even angrier after that, constantly lashing out and furious at everything. Bucky hadn’t understood it at the time—he sure as hell does _now_ , but he was young and stupid back then—and it had just fueled his desire to stay away from Clint even more. The Bartons had sent him off to a school for troubled kids after a few years, and Bucky didn’t see him again until he and Steve were nearly done with high school.

So he’s _different_ , this Clint. Bucky mostly remembers a tiny little blond ball of rage, furious at everyone and everything. And he’s still like that, to some extent—but then again, so is Bucky. It’s just more...directed now. More focused. The rage is still there, but it’s covered with this lazy smile, and the sarcasm, and Bucky can’t help but wonder what the reasoning is. If it’s entirely from finding a creative outlet in his artwork—like photography was for him—or if there was something else behind the change. Something more.

He’s never asked, though, despite his curiosity. They’ve been going to the same college for two years now, but he’s never asked. They hang out sometimes, and occasionally run into each other on campus, but it’s not like they’re best friends or anything. And even if they were, he wouldn’t ask. He doesn’t want to talk about his own accident, he’s pretty sure that Clint doesn’t want to talk about what happened to him either.

Bucky snaps another few pictures, then puts the camera away as Clint comes over. “Hey,” he says, setting a tray down. “Guess who got free coffee?”

“Was it you?”

“It was me.” Clint grins at him. “She’s a _Gremlin 47_ fan.”

Bucky snorts. “Really? She’s like...eight million years old.”

“She’s sixty-four, asshole.” Clint sticks his tongue out at Bucky, and hey, he’s got a tongue piercing now. That’s new. “She saw them in concert last year.” He pulls up his sleeve a little and shows Bucky his left wrist, displaying an alien-looking little gremlin, with sharply pointed ears—one with a hooped earring in it—and a 47 making up part of its head. The eyes stare up accusingly at Bucky, and the teeth are set right over Clint’s veins, almost like it’s taking a bite. “Best tattoo ever. Totally worth it.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Whatever.” He reaches for one of the foil-wrapped burritos.

“Mine,” Clint says, grabbing it. “That one’s yours.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Garlic.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I swear to God, Barton—”

“Can vampires swear to God? Is that allowed?”

“I’m never road tripping with you again,” Bucky tells him, picking up his burrito. “Never.”

“You love it and you know it,” Clint says.

“Do not,” Bucky mutters, unwrapping it.

Clint snickers at him and takes a bite of his burrito. His eyes close and he makes an almost pornographic noise, something low in his throat that borders on the utterly obscene. “Fuck, that’s _so_ good.”

Bucky is frozen, food halfway to his mouth as he watches Clint swallow, eyes still closed. He quickly drops his burrito and pulls the camera out, cursing quietly as he tries to swap out the lens again. He should have changed them before Clint sat down, should’ve had this ready to go, dammit—

“What are you doing?” Clint asks, looking at him.

“Trying to take a picture,” Bucky says.

“Of what?”

_The face you just made, because it was hot as fuck._ “Of the whole place. I just—I don’t know. I saw it in my head. I need a picture.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “Okay. Sure.” He scoots over a little bit, giving Bucky a clear shot. Which is nice, but not what he wants.

“You can keep eating,” Bucky says. _Please_.

“I’m watching,” Clint says, propping his chin on his hand. “Maybe I want to draw this.”

“Draw what?”

“You taking pictures of things.”

“Why?”

Clint shrugs and takes another bite. “I like the way you look,” he says. “When you take pictures. You look...happy.”

Bucky takes the shot, not really paying attention to it. It’s probably going to be blurry, but he doesn’t really care. “I do?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how to explain it.” He sets his burrito down. “Hang on, I’ll be back.”

He goes up to the counter, smiling at the lady, then comes back with a clean napkin and a pen. Bucky watches as he starts sketching with his left hand while eating with his right.

“Talented,” Bucky says, and Clint chuckles.

“Years of practice,” he says. “I’m very good with my hands.”

Bucky raises his camera and takes a picture, focusing on Clint’s left hand. There’s smudges of paint on it still from yesterday. It’s faded, like he tried to scrub it off, but couldn’t quite get it all the way. It’s covering the lines of the tattoo down his middle finger, which Bucky’s pretty sure says “SUFFER” underneath the paint.

Clint’s also got a tattoo on the back of that hand, some kind of curling design. It almost looks like a flower, colored in reds and yellows and blues, but there’s something set into it—

“It’s a tattoo machine,” Clint says absently.

“Huh?”

“The hand you’re staring at. It’s a tattoo machine nestled in a chrysanthemum.”

“Oh.” Bucky leans in a little closer with his camera. “Hold still a moment.” He takes a picture of the chrysanthemum, trying to catch the way the pencil rests against it. “I like it.”

“Thanks.” Clint smiles, eyes intent on the drawing.

“What does it mean?”

“Anything I want it to.” He takes a bite of his burrito, and makes a little noise of protest as some of it spills on his drawing. Bucky laughs, then suddenly remembers that he’s supposed to be eating. He trades the camera for his own burrito and takes a bite.

Clint brushes the napkin off and keeps sketching, occasionally glancing at him. Bucky watches with fascination as his own body starts to take shape. There’s not a ton of details, and it’s a little smudged from the burrito, but there’s enough there that he can tell it’s supposed to be him. He’s holding the camera at chest height, and his face is—

Well. Happy’s not the right word. He looks content, more than anything. Satisfied. At peace. It’s everything photography’s ever made him feel, right there on paper, and it brings an unexpected lump to his throat.

“You look like that,” Clint says, sounding proud, and he shoves the napkin over at Bucky. “I mean, it’s not a _good_ drawing, but that’s what I see. When I look at you.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. It’s all he _can_ say, really. He doesn’t have the words for anything else.

Clint toys with his lip ring, looking a little crestfallen. “It’s crappy, I know. I’ll do a better one.” He reaches for it.

Bucky pulls it away. “I love it,” he says.

“It’s got burrito on it,” Clint says. “I can do better.”

“So draw another. I still want this one.” Bucky tucks it into his pocket.

Clint beams at him, that sunshine smile breaking over his face, and picks up his burrito. “Okay,” he says, and takes a bite. “It’s yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/) And here is the [rebloggable post for this chapter](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/post/636989589085700096/chapter-two-is-now-up-header-once-again-done-by)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is he flirting with Clint? Sure, the guy’s hot, and Bucky’s definitely got a thing for his tattoos, and yeah, he really likes the way Clint smiles. But he’s not flirting.
> 
> Is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filling my "mutual pining square for WHB

Clint flirts his way into a couple of free chocolate-chip muffins, and brings them back out to the truck with a smile. “Gotta remember this place,” he says. “Nancy is awesome. She said she can score me tickets for the next Gremlins concert out here.”

“She’s cool,” Bucky agrees, getting into the truck. “You have enough coffee for the moment?”

“For the moment.” Clint closes the door, then roots around in the center console until he comes up with a pair of sunglasses. “Ha. Knew these were in here somewhere.”

“Good idea,” Bucky says, and searches through his own backpack. He comes up just in time to see Clint pulling off his jacket, revealing a grey tank top underneath.

His brain goes blank for a moment, because Clint’s arms are just covered in tattoos, explosions of color and lines swirling their way up his skin. They shift and move hypnotically, rippling over an expanse of muscles as he shoves the jacket off the rest of the way. “I’m gonna put this by you,” Clint says, then pauses with his hand outstretched. “Dude. Bucky. Earth to Dracula.”

Bucky’s staring. He _knows_ he’s staring, and he can’t fucking stop. There’s just so much to look at. Clint’s like a walking art museum, every inch of skin covered. There’s a nod to Rothko over his left bicep, and an homage to that Kobra guy on his right shoulder, and what looks like Kandinsky spiraling around a forearm. But there’s also a god-awful Nirvana smiley face, and a stick figure dog, and what might be a _raccoon_ nestled into his right elbow, and Bucky just doesn’t know what to do about any of it. Christ, he thought the clothing was a study in contrast, but this—

“Bucky,” Clint says again, sounding amused as hell, and Bucky’s brain does something like that Windows start-up sound.

“Yeah,” he says, and looks up at Clint’s face. “Um. Sorry.”

Clint is grinning like the fucking Cheshire Cat. “You okay over there?”

“I like your tattoos,” Bucky says, which is about the only thing that his words will cooperate with saying. “They’re...”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says, still grinning. He puts his jacket in Bucky’s lap. “Well. I’m going to drive now.”

“Okay,” Bucky says faintly.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

“Okay.” He fumbles for it, sliding it into the buckle. He’s suddenly very grateful for Clint’s jacket, because he’s so fucking turned on that he can’t really see straight, and he’s _definitely_ got a boner.

_It’s just tattoos_ , he tells himself. _Get a fucking grip, Barnes._

Clint leans over him and opens the glove box, which puts him dangerously close to Bucky’s lap. Bucky squirms deeper in his seat, trying not to give anything away. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Getting my aux cord. I’m tired of the radio.” He slams the glove box shut and sits up. “I want to listen to decent music.”

He plugs his phone in, then pulls up some godawful punk rock song that Bucky instantly wants to turn off. The only reason he doesn’t immediately punch it off is because Clint’s face lights up, and he starts singing along in a very off-key voice. “I love this song,” he says loudly, pulling the truck back onto the highway. “I love this band.”

“Is this a Gremlins song?” Bucky asks, raising his voice.

“ _Age of Gremlon_ , ‘Geezerlove’,” Clint says, like that’s supposed to mean a goddamn thing to Bucky at all. “Old man thinks he’s fast, but he didn’t see me comin’...” He trails off, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he settles into a speed.

The music kicks off into some unintelligible screaming and heavy bass, and Bucky resigns himself to the next few hours of this. Maybe when they stop again he can take over and put something decent on.

The miles pass by. Bucky’s dick finally gets the message that nothing’s gonna happen, to the point where he feels safe enough to move Clint’s jacket down by his. Clint smirks a little, but doesn’t comment, and Bucky doesn’t offer an explanation.

Pennsylvania is decent to drive through—certainly beats Ohio, or Nebraska, or any of those other shitty states—and Bucky loses himself in the gently sloping mountains, and the brilliant green of the trees, and the way they stand tall against the sharp blue of the sky. He wishes he could capture it all on film. He’d love to see the colors come into being, love to play around with the developer until it showed up as perfectly as he sees it now. Love to capture an image of this and have it tucked away forever somewhere, a little piece of blue-sky perfection just for him.

Clint lowers the volume. “Do you care if I put the windows down?”

“No,” Bucky says. “That’s fine.” The song switches over, into something Bucky recognizes. “You like Fall Out Boy?”

“I love them,” Clint says, glancing at him. He holds up his left arm, and Bucky sees the band symbol tucked away into a spiral of music notes tip-toeing their way up his forearm. “You too?”

“Yeah.” Bucky grins at him, fighting the urge to take his arm and examine the rest of the images there. “I saw them live last year.”

“Jealous,” Clint says. “I was going to go, but then Steve invited me to—” He stops, casting a nervous look Bucky’s way.

Bucky sighs. “You can talk about him,” he says. “I’m not gonna go ballistic or anything. I know he’s your stepbrother; I know you guys do shit together.”

Clint makes a wiggly hand gesture. “Eh,” he says. “Sometimes. He’s...” He trails off. “A lot.”

“He cares about you.”

“He cares too much,” Clint corrects. “Just because he’s a good all-American boy doesn’t mean I have to be that too, and it’s annoying when he tries to tell me otherwise.”

“I have trouble seeing you as a good all-American boy,” Bucky says, and Clint looks very happy about that.

“I’m a rebellious soul,” he agrees. “Fuck the system, etcetera etcetera.” He moves lanes, going around a semi-truck. “But Steve keeps trying to push me towards more respectable things. Like, just because _he_ loves designing houses for rich assholes in Portland doesn’t mean I want to do the same thing, you know? Maybe I _like_ tagging shit for fun. Maybe I _want_ to draw furry commissions and live off ramen in a shitty little apartment in Brooklyn.”

“You draw furry commissions?”

“On occasion. I’m not good at it. I’m better at other stuff. But they pay well, so...” He looks over at Bucky again, something like trepidation on his face.

“I take commissions,” Bucky says. “I’ve photographed some weird shit. No judgement here.” He laughs. “You know Wade Wilson?”

“The cafeteria guy?”

“Yeah. He wanted pictures of water towers. Specifically, the ladders and the fencing around them.”

Clint snorts. “Oh god. Is he going to climb a water tower?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. He paid for it, he gets it.”

“Is that your policy on everything?” Clint asks, a teasing note in his voice.

“Most things. Why?”

“Well, because if that’s the case, I’d like to remind you of my sugar daddy status—”

“Oh my god,” Bucky says, and starts laughing. “Don’t even go there.”

_You should definitely go there_ , a part of him argues.

A flash of disappointment crosses Clint’s face, there and gone so fast Bucky questions whether or not it really happened. “Just sayin’,” he says, offering a mischievous smile.

Bucky shakes his head. “Anyway. All I mean is you should do what makes you happy. If you want to draw furry commissions and live off ramen in a shitty apartment, that’s fine. If you want to go on the straight and narrow and be like him, then do that. It’s your life. Steve means well, but he tries too hard, and it shows.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Clint mutters. He rubs a hand through his hair. “Have you talked to him at all? Since the...” He trails off and waves a hand, looking uncomfortable.

Bucky swallows back the memories. “A little bit.”

“As in...”

“As in we wish each other happy birthday and Merry Christmas.” Bucky shrugs. “I don’t _hate_ him. I don’t even really blame him. But no, we don’t talk. There isn’t anything to say. We said it all four years ago when he left for Portland, and I’m just not interested in reliving the past every time I talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, voice contemplative. “I guess that makes sense.” He laughs a little. “You know, I always thought you guys would end up together.”

Bucky stares at him. “ _What?_ ”

“I’m just saying. You were always hanging around him.”

“He hung around me. And _ew_ , no. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Really?” Clint throws him an interested glance. “Why not?”

“He was like my brother,” Bucky says. “I had no interest in dating him, and even if things had gone right, I still wouldn’t have any interest in dating him. I don’t see him that way.” He smirks. “Too all-American boy for me, you know.”

Clint hums. “So...what _are_ you into, then? If not straight-laced all-American boys.”

“I don’t know.” Bucky shrugs. “I don’t really date, if that’s what you’re asking. I hate having to explain the arm, and I’m busy with classes anyway. I figured if the right person ever came along, I’d just know.”

Clint looks like he wants to say something, but after a moment he just taps his fingers on the steering wheel and shakes his head. Bucky studies him for a moment, dragging his eyes over the tattoos, watching the sunlight play off them.

“Why?” he finally asks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you care what I’m into?”

Clint pokes at his lip ring for a bit, then says, “Just making conversation.”

The mood of the truck suddenly changes, a tension appearing between them that wasn’t there a second ago. Clint keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the road, both hands gripping the wheel. His knuckles are white.

“Oh.” Bucky tries for a joke, hoping to lighten the...whatever this is. “I thought you were just impersonating my grandmother again. Asking me about school and girlfriends and all that.”

It works, a little bit. Clint tilts his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Girlfriends? Did you not—”

“I did not,” Bucky interrupts. “The woman is almost ninety years old, Clint. I’m not going to give her a heart attack by telling her I’m gay. It’s just not worth it, trust me.”

“Fair enough.” Clint changes lanes, then asks, “Do your parents know?”

“Nope. Becca knows, that’s it. Please don’t mention it to them either.”

A hint of seriousness comes over Clint’s face. “I wouldn’t,” he says. “That’s not my story to tell.”

Something eases in Bucky’s chest, something he didn’t even know was tense until Clint said that. “Thank you,” he murmurs, slumping back in the seat. “I appreciate that.”

They lapse back into silence. Bucky turns to look out the window, watching the trees flash by. He’s missed this, to some extent. He used to love road trips, before. One summer as a kid, his parents had rented an RV, and they’d done a family trip from Iowa to Utah. He doesn’t remember a whole lot—he knows Steve came along, although not Clint, so that must have been post-hearing loss. He remembers campfires, and playing video games on the bed with Steve, and singing along to music. Remembers his mother looking happy for once, and his father not arguing. Remembers Becca insisting on bringing her little telescope along—scientifically-minded even back then.

Bucky leans his head on the window, letting the landscape blur a little. It’s hypnotic, all of it. The way the scenery passes by, the grind of the road under the tires, the way Clint is humming along to another shit Gremlin song. It all blends together in his mind, a single stream of noise that rises like a wave, a soothing warmth settling into his bones. 

He jerks awake when the truck suddenly slows, Clint swearing a blue streak under his breath. Bucky’s right hand shoots out to grab the door handle, the other grabbing for his seatbelt. “What the fuck—”

“Sorry,” Clint says immediately. “Light turned yellow and I hit the brakes harder than I meant to. You okay?”

Bucky rubs his eyes and sits up, looking around incredulously. They’re not on the interstate anymore, they’re at a stoplight leading into a small town. It’s quaint, really. The brick buildings and old style signs lend it a sense of timelessness, like the whole place is in its own little 1950s bubble.

He rubs his eyes again. “Where are we? When did you...” He trails off, looking around. “Did I...was I _sleeping_?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and he sounds oddly happy about it. “For like, two hours.” He looks over. “Are you okay? I really didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, calming his racing heart. “I’m okay.” He sits up more. “Are we stopping?”

“I need gas,” Clint says. “And a little bit of a break. Just like ten minutes.”

Bucky nods. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know. I just pulled off when I saw the gas station sign.”

He retrieves his phone from the floor. “We’re northeast of Pittsburgh.”

“That’s not _helpful_ ,” Clint says. “Give me a town name.”

“DuBois.”

Clint nods. “That’s better.”

“What, you know where DuBois is, but not Pittsburgh?”

“No. But we’re not going through Pittsburgh,” Clint says, pulling into a gas station. “So I don’t care where we are in relation to it.” He shuts the car off. “What’s the next biggest city we go by?”

“Uh...Cleveland. Little over two and a half hours.”

Clint opens the door. “Wanna make that our lunch stop? Is that too long to wait?”

“That’s fine.” Bucky undoes his seatbelt. “I’m gonna go in, you want anything?”

“Oh, here.” Clint pulls his wallet out and hands Bucky a twenty. “Something disgustingly unhealthy, if you don’t mind.”

Bucky takes the money and goes into the gas station. He grabs stuff at random, not really paying attention to any of it. He’s still marveling over the fact that he was _sleeping_. In a _car_. And it wasn’t even like he was exhausted, or desperately needed to sleep. He’d been relaxed enough that he’d just...drifted.

The bell rings, and Clint steps through the door. “All good to go,” he says. “I’m gonna use the bathroom, and...” He stops, a curious look on his face. “You okay? You look a little...”

“I was _sleeping_ ,” Bucky says. “I don’t—you don’t understand, that’s like—I _never_ —not since—”

“It’s good.” Clint rubs a hand over his neck. “I mean, I’m glad you...you know. Felt safe. With me.”

“I do feel safe with you,” Bucky tells him, watching as Clint ducks his head a little, a pleased smile breaking over his face.

“Good,” he says. “I’m, uh. Good to know.”

He brushes past Bucky, heading for the back. Bucky watches him for a moment, then takes the stuff up to the counter.

The cashier starts scanning. “Find everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He hands over the money. “All good.”

He takes everything back out to the car, and leans against it, waiting for Clint. It’s a nice spring day—warm, sunny, perfect temperature. If he wasn’t on a road trip, he’d probably be taking pictures down on the beach somewhere. He’s been meaning to get some long exposures of the city skyline, maybe develop them in black and white, see if that makes them more appealing. There’s just something not working about what he’s doing right now. It’s like he’s not connected to it.

Clint comes out of the station and slides his sunglasses back on. He stretches in the sunlight, arms overhead and back arching, then starts across the lot towards Bucky. “Alright. You said what, three hours to Cleveland?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, suddenly wishing he’d taken a picture of that. He’s half-tempted to ask Clint to do it again, just so he can memorialize the long stretch of Clint’s arms, the way his head tilted back, the curve of his spine—

“Gonna actually put the windows down now,” Clint says, opening the door. “I meant to earlier, and then we got to talking, and then you fell asleep.” He starts the car and pushes both windows down. “But it’s a nice day, I wanna feel some sunshine.”

“Works for me.” Bucky gets in and buckles up.

“You’d better put your jacket back on,” Clint says as he puts the truck in gear. “Just in case.”

“Of what?”

“You know.” He looks over at Bucky, that crooked smile on his face. “Don’t want to let the sunlight directly touch your skin.”

“Oh for _fucks_ sake,” Bucky sighs, looking down into the bag of stuff so Clint won’t see him laughing. “I’m not a vampire!”

“Mmhmm,” Clint says, pulling onto the road. “Suuuuure you’re not.”

“Just for that, I’m not giving you any candy.” Bucky opens up a chocolate bar and breaks off a chunk, closing his eyes as he chews. “Oh man, this is so good,” he says, drawing out the words and over-exaggerating every moan. “So _chocolatey_ and _rich_.”

He opens his eyes to see Clint staring at him. He looks like he did when Bucky changed his shirt at the start of the trip, like someone’s punched him in the gut, all wide-eyed and stunned. The truck is idling at the stop sign, Clint’s foot firmly shoved on the brake.

“Uh,” Bucky says, lowering the bar. “Are you okay?”

Clint blinks, then looks out his own window. “Just checking the traffic,” he says faintly, and pulls out into the empty street. “Um. Want some music? You can plug your phone in, if you want.”

“Sure.” Bucky sets the chocolate down, then pulls out his own phone. “Preferences?”

“Nah.” Clint waves a hand, sounding a little more like his normal self. “I made you listen to Gremlin, you can put on whatever.”

Bucky plugs it in and hits shuffle, too preoccupied to really pick anything specific. He’s still trying to parse out whatever the fuck he did to make Clint look at him like that. He was just trying to be _funny_ , not do anything...else. He looks over at Clint, who still has that punched-out expression on his face, even as he checks over his shoulder and merges back onto the interstate.

Clint glances at him at the same time. Their eyes meet, and suddenly there’s that _tension_ again between them, like when they were talking about boyfriends, and—

_Oh my god,_ Bucky realizes. _He thinks I’m flirting with him._

Clint turns back to the road. “Didn’t know you were an Elton John fan.”

“He’s gay and timeless,” Bucky says absently, still absorbed in his thoughts. _Is_ he flirting with Clint? Sure, the guy’s hot, and Bucky’s definitely got a thing for his tattoos, and yeah, he really likes the way Clint smiles. But he’s not flirting.

Is he?

“Christ,” Bucky mutters, rubbing his forehead. He’s not _good_ at this shit. That’s why he doesn’t do it. He’s never been good at it. He vividly remembers being in high school, and having a massive crush on Brandon Cleaver, and being thoroughly unable to convey that fact at all. Flirting just isn’t his thing. He’s not like Clint, he can’t just lean on a counter and smile at someone and get free coffee.

But the way Clint had just _looked_ at him...

Bucky shoves the thoughts away. Even if that did count as flirting, he shouldn’t do it again. Clint’s likely not interested anyway, _and_ he’s Steve’s stepbrother, which is a whole can of worms that Bucky probably needs to avoid.

He opens a candy bar and hands it over to Clint, a silent apology. Clint takes it after a moment. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Bucky settles down into his seat, props his arm on the window, and lets the quiet voice of Elton John fill the space between them.

* * *

Talking is hard with the windows down anyway, and Clint turns the music louder to compensate for the wind, so they end up not saying a word to each other until they get close to Cleveland. Bucky spends the time alternating between watching the other cars, watching Clint, and trying not to think about either of those things in any particular detail.

When they’re about a half-hour out, Clint reaches over and pokes Bucky’s leg. “Hey,” he says, turning the music down. “Find us somewhere to eat.”

“What do you want?”

“Anything.” Clint shrugs. “You know me. I have no standards.”

“I do know that,” Bucky agrees, and Clint pulls a face at him. “What? I’m just agreeing with you.” He skims through some restaurants. “I assume you want to actually stop, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t care if it’s fast food, but I want out of the car for a bit.” He yawns, then shakes his head. “I need more coffee, too.”

Bucky picks a place at random, and twenty minutes later, they get off the highway and pull into the parking lot of some little diner. It’s one of those old-school ones, with the soda fountain and the records on the wall, and the chrome car-style booths. Bucky’s always liked these kinds of places—they don’t really fit with his personal aesthetic, but there’s something inherently charming about them anyway. Either that or he’s got too many fond memories of hanging out around the one in Waverly with Steve.

He takes his Polaroid camera with him, just in case something catches his eye. To his surprise, Clint digs into his own bag, then pulls out his sketchbook and a charcoal pencil. “Gonna draw,” he says. “I’ve got some homework to get done.”

The diner is small, with tiled floors, and air that smells faintly of grease and fries. It’s a little dingy, with flickering fluorescent lights illuminating the 1950s decor. Elvis Presley is playing faintly from a jukebox in the far corner, the volume wavering between notes.

Clint looks around. “Neat. This is like the one at home.”

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugs. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”

“Nah, man. They’ve got chicken strips and milkshakes, we’re totally staying.”

They order and pick a booth. Bucky sets his Polaroid down, then checks something on his phone. “So,” he says. “Toledo’s only like...two hours from here.”

“Really?” Clint looks at his watch. “Well, I’m still good with stopping there, if you want. I’m starting to get wiped on driving, and I’m down to hang out and watch shit TV in a motel.” He yawns again. “Ugh.”

“Do you need to sleep?” Bucky asks. “I can—I mean, I won’t _drive_ , but I’m cool with sitting in the car or something if you need a nap.”

Clint shrugs. “We’ll see how I feel after eating. Some food and coffee should be good. I can make two more hours.”

He opens his sketchbook and glances around, then starts drawing. Bucky observes with interest, watching how the booths and walls start to take shape on the paper. “This is homework?”

"Assignment for Odinson," Clint grumbles. "He thinks my perspective needs work. Gave me extra homework, because he's a dick."

Bucky sips his beer. "He's the blond one, right? The body builder?”

Clint nods, then scowls at one of his lines. “Crap.” He turns to the next page and starts over.

"I hear people think he's pretty hot," Bucky says casually, trying to pretend he's not paying attention to every flexing muscle in Clint's arm.

"He's okay," Clint says, sounding like he's not really listening at all. "Too much light for me."

Bucky laughs. "Too much _light_?"

"Yeah," Clint says. He scowls again, the skin between his eyebrows creasing in frustration. Bucky has a sudden urge to smooth it out. "I like tall, dark, and handsome, personally." He looks up suddenly, meeting Bucky's eyes with a hint of a smirk on his face. "More fun to draw."

Bucky turns his straw over in his fingers, unable to take his eyes off Clint’s. They’re so _blue_ , he realizes, and bright, and full of mischief. His fingers itch to snap a picture of it, to see if he can capture the intensity of Clint’s gaze, if he can freeze it into a single moment to look at again later—

A frazzled-looking waitress deposits two glasses of water on the table, breaking the moment. “Thanks,” Bucky says, looking up at her.

“Food should be out in a minute,” she says, and disappears to another table. Bucky looks back at Clint, who is drawing again. He’s worrying at his lip ring again, absently poking at it while he sketches the door.

_Okay then_ , Bucky thinks, tearing the wrapper off his straw. _That...happened._

He turns the moment over in his mind. The look. The comments. The way Clint had smirked at him. He thought Clint was making a joke at first, but there was something else behind that smirk. Something more heated—

_Holy shit,_ Bucky realizes. _He’s flirting with me._

He stirs his water, keeping his eyes on the swirling ice as he tries to gather his thoughts. _Are_ they flirting? Is that what’s happening?

Does he _want_ that to happen?

Bucky studies Clint across the table, watching the way his face is creased in concentration, and the way his tattoos ripple in his forearm as he moves the pencil across the page. He wonders what Clint would do if he just reached out and touched them, traced his fingers over the lines of Clint's life story, splashed across his skin in faded ink. Bucky's never asked him what they mean, or how he got them. Why he chose that specific image to stay forever, instead of something else.

He’s suddenly desperate to ask now. To know the story behind the stick figure dog, and the shitty Nirvana smiley face, and if those came before the music notes or after. He wants to watch Clint’s eyes light up as he talks about Kandinsky, or goes on about Rothko’s bold use of colors. These things are important to Clint, important enough to put on his body for a lifetime, and Bucky feels like a complete asshole for never thinking to ask _why_.

The sharpness of that almost takes his breath away, and he makes a short noise in the back of his throat. Clint flicks his eyes up, assessing him for a moment. “You okay?”

_I don’t know,_ Bucky thinks. His world is shifting, sliding off its axis, and he doesn’t know how to get it back on track. Guilt and desire are warring in him—he shouldn’t do this, not with Clint. He’s Steve’s stepbrother, for fucks sake—

_So?_ a little part of him whispers. _You don’t owe Steve a damn thing._

“Bucky,” Clint says. “What are—”

The food arrives, a red tray suddenly appearing on the table between them. Clint jumps and moves his sketchbook out of the way just in time. “Watch it!”

“I’m so sorry,” the waitress says, the apology just as rushed as the rest of her. “I’ll be back with your milkshakes in a moment.”

Clint puts his sketchbook away, and Bucky moves his camera, trying to clear enough space on the tiny table. He opens the bag and pulls out the boxes, then dumps the fries on the tray. “Free-for-all,” he says, trying to lighten the tension. Trying to distract himself from whatever the fuck just happened.

Thankfully, Clint laughs. “Is that a challenge? Because I bet I can eat more fries than you.”

“You’re on,” Bucky says, and they dive in, forgoing conversation in favor of eating. The chicken isn’t anything special, but the fries are really good, and the milkshakes, once they arrive, are even better. Bucky watches with mild interest as Clint dips his fries in his milkshake, which isn’t something he’s ever thought about trying, but turns out to be pretty damn good.

“So good,” Clint says. “Good call, coming here. I love these kinds of places. I miss the one in Waverly.”

“Me too,” Bucky admits. “We used to hang out there all the time.”

“I remember.” Clint dips another fry, then adds, “I went with you guys a few times. I remember Steve trying to flirt with Katy Jennings.”

“She was the waitress,” Bucky says, laughing. “Shit, I forgot about that. We were like...eleven? And she was sixteen, and she was so damn pretty—”

“Steve had a huge crush on her,” Clint says. “He kept trying to get her to give him free fries, and she just—oh god, remember when she patted him on the head and he had that stupid look on his face all day—”

“We all had a crush on her,” Bucky says. “I knew I was into guys at that point, but that fuckin’ hair of hers...” He shakes his head, taking a fry from the pile. “Guess I’ve always had a thing for blonds.”

“Oh?”

The single word is full of _so much more_ , and the smirk is back, curving over his mouth as he raises his eyebrows at Bucky. Clint pulls the fry out of his milkshake and puts it in his mouth, sucking the ice cream off it, and okay—Bucky’s a moron, but he’s pretty sure _that_ counts as flirting.

“Yeah,” he says, looking right back, imbuing his own kind of challenge into the word. Testing the waters, or confirming his suspicions, or _something_.

And it must work, because Clint’s eyes get darker, and the smirk gets wider, and he reaches for another fry, popping this one in his mouth without anything extra. “I’ll keep that in mind,” is all he says, and then he leans back in the booth and stretches, long arms moving above his head as he pops his back, letting out a relieved sigh. “That’s better.”

Fucking hell. This is _why_ Bucky doesn’t flirt, because he doesn’t know how to respond to that at all. He wants to take a picture, but he also wants to shove this table aside and get his hands all over Clint, touch his tattoos and his hair; pin him against the booth and kiss that fucking lip ring, feel Clint’s tongue piercing against his own mouth—

“Here’s your check,” the waitress says, and Clint drops his arms, taking it from her with a thousand-watt smile.

“Thanks,” he drawls, turning up the Midwest in his voice. “Any chance we could get the rest of these to go?” He taps the milkshakes. “We gotta hit the road again.”

“Sure,” she says, a slow smile spreading over her face, like it’s being pulled out of her. “I can do that for you.”

“Appreciate it,” Clint says, winking at her slow and lazy, and Bucky feels a sudden flash of jealousy. Which is—well, it’s fucking stupid, really. This is just who Clint is. He smiles and flirts at everything on two legs, and Bucky’s not anything special, he’s just another one in a long line of them.

Which is why he needs to drag his goddamn mind out of the gutter. He’s not going to kiss Clint, he’s going to get himself under control and walk out of here and get in the car and carry on with his life. Clint is Steve’s stepbrother, and he’s one of Bucky’s only real friends. Nothing is going to happen between them. Nothing _can_ happen between them. Bucky’s not risking everything he’s got because of some wild hormones.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he announces loudly, and scoots out of the booth. He just barely catches a glimpse of the confused look on Clint’s face as he books it into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind himself. He locks it, then rests his forehead against the door for the moment, letting the chill of the metal seep into his skin.

“Get a grip,” he tells his dick, which is making its desires _very_ known. “I’m not—no. It’s not happening.”

He uses the toilet, then washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face. It’s not exactly a cold shower, but it’s the best he can do right now. He grips the edges of the sink and looks into the mirror, scowling at his reflection.

There’s no way Clint’s into him, anyway. It’s not like he’s a prize. Clint jokes about him being a vampire, but he’s really not that far off the mark—Bucky’s pale, and dark haired, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in about fifty years, and he’s not picky about shaving so he’s got more stubble than face at this point and—

Well. Point being, he’s not exactly anything to look at. And he’s not a blast to hang around with, either. His roommate can attest to that. So basically, Bucky’s a disheveled, brooding asshole with poor social skills, and yeah, there’s no goddamn way someone like Clint would ever actually be interested.

“So get over yourself,” Bucky says to the mirror. “And stop staring at him like an idiot.”

He dries his hands, then goes back out to the booth. The waitress is still standing there, still smiling at Clint. Her fingers are tracing over his tattoos, and she’s making these stupid cooing noises, and Bucky wants to punch her. “What’s this one?” she asks, thumb rubbing over the Gremlin.

“It’s a band,” Clint says. “Gremlin 47. They’re great.” He points to the music notes trailing their way up his skin. “These are the opening notes to one of their songs.”

Bucky steps up to the table. “We should hit the road,” he says, doing his best to sound upbeat. “If you’re good to drive.”

“I’m great to drive.” Clint gets up. “Nice to meet you, Jenny.”

She blushes bright red and hands him something. A receipt, Bucky thinks at first, but no, it’s her fucking phone number—

He leaves. He walks past the dying jukebox and right out the door. The smell of grease and fries clings to him like a cloud as he storms across the parking lot to Clint’s truck. He can’t get in, so he just leans against the door and seethes at himself.

Clint follows a moment later, carrying both milkshakes and something else tucked under his arm—Bucky’s Polaroid. He picks his way across the gravel, stopping a short distance from Bucky. “You left this in there,” he says, setting the milkshakes down and handing the case to him. “Wanna tell me what that was about?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, taking the camera. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t nothing.” Clint crosses his arms and scowls at him. “What happened? One second you were fine, and then the next second you were pissed about something.”

“I’m always pissed about something,” Bucky snaps. “Isn’t that my fucking M.O.?”

The words come out harsher than he means them to, and Clint looks a little taken aback. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Uh. You want your milkshake?”

He doesn’t, but Clint brought it out here for him, so Bucky grabs it anyway. “Let’s go,” he says. “I just—let’s go.”

Clint watches him for a moment, then goes over to his side and unlocks the truck. Bucky gets in, moving that fucking garlic bulb before setting the shake in the cupholder and the camera on the floor. He wants to apologize to Clint—it’s not _his_ fault Bucky’s a fucking mess—but he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what he’s sorry for. For being jealous? For storming out like a moody teenager? For not growing a pair and talking to Clint like a fucking adult?

His phone rings and he scrambles for it, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Becca says. “You haven’t texted in hours. I’m calling to yell.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, wincing because his voice doesn’t sound fine at all. He still sounds pissed off.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to pick up on it. “Good. How’s Clint? Where are you?”

“We’re a couple hours from Toledo. Clint’s fine.” He looks over, and Clint lifts a hand off the steering wheel to wave. “He says hi. How are you?”

“Okay. Mom and Dad are...being their usual selves. I’m hiding in my room.”

Bucky sighs. “I’m sorry, Becks. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Do they know you’re coming?”

“Of course they...” He stops, then barks out a laugh. “No. They don’t know. I forgot to tell them.”

Clint snickers. “Classic.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says. “I want to see their faces anyway, when I walk through the front door. Five bucks says Dad’s pissed.”

“Why would he be pissed?”

“Because I embarrass him,” Bucky tells her. “He wanted a nice, well-educated business kid and he got an emo bastard photography student. That’s why they love you most, remember? You got the looks and the brains.”

Becca laughs. “They love you too, you moron. They’re just not the best at showing it.”

“They don’t love me. I’m okay with it.”

“Well, I love you.”

“That’s all I care about.” He looks out the window. “I’m not sure when we’ll be in tomorrow, but it’ll probably be in the afternoon.”

“That’s fine. Text me before you get here; I want to watch to make sure I’m around for the show.”

“Will do. Love you, Becks.”

“You too.” She hangs up, and Bucky lowers the phone, suddenly feeling marginally better than he did two minutes ago.

Clint clears his throat. “So they don’t know you’re coming?”

“They do not.” Bucky grins. “That’ll be fun.”

“You realize I’m gonna have to stay with you, right? Steve sold the house.”

Bucky stares at him. “What? When did that happen?”

“When I got accepted to school. He was already living in Portland by then. He came back on weekends to see me.”

Bucky really wants to know how Steve was able to afford that, but he doesn’t ask. “Oh. Well, you can stay. That’s fine. Ma will probably be happy to see you. She always asks me about Steve and I never have an answer for her.”

“I don’t have any answers for her either,” Clint says. “It’s not like we call every day. I know he’s out in Portland, I know he’s dating some super rich guy, and I know he’s happy there. That’s all.”

“Well. That’s already three more things than I knew, so...” Bucky plugs his phone in and queues up some music. “Anyway. You can crash on the couch.”

“Awesome.” Clint taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Alright. How far to Toledo?”

Bucky checks his phone. “Two hours exact to the motel.”

“Okay.” He picks up his milkshake. “That’s easy enough.”

“Good,” Bucky mutters, and settles into his seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> All artwork by [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is what we get,” Bucky says. “The guy says he’ll try and look for a cot. I can sleep on the floor if he can’t find one, I’ve done it before. Or we can try and find a different place—”
> 
> Clint snorts. “Or we could just share?”
> 
> “What?”
> 
> “Share.” Clint gestures at the bed. “This is a king-sized bed, Barnes. Plenty of space.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SMUT IS HERE! 
> 
> Also some discussion of past suicidal thoughts/ideation. Not graphic.

An hour later, though, they start to run into traffic. At first it’s just more cars. Nothing particularly nerve-wracking, but it’s enough to make Bucky’s skin prickle a little bit. Then the lanes suddenly start closing from construction, faded markers on the road directing the flow of cars down into one narrow strip, and he can feel his heart rate start to pick up.

“It’s okay,” Clint says, looking nervous himself. “It’s just construction. I’ll go slow.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky tells him, even as he wraps his hand around the door handle again. “It’s—it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry. I would’ve gone around if I knew.”

“I’m the one navigating. I should’ve been paying attention.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Well, it’s not yours either.”

Clint sighs. “Fine. Neither of us. Do you want me to pull off somewhere and we can try and find an alternate route?”

Bucky looks at his phone. “No. We’re only an hour out, anyway. I’ll deal.”

“Are you sure?”

Bucky nods once, short and sharp. “I’m fine. Let’s do it.”

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

“I’m a big scary vampire, remember? I can handle my own shit.”

Clint laughs a little bit, but he still looks uncomfortable. “Okay. Just let me know.”

They keep going. Bucky keeps his eyes on the car in front of them—silently thanking Clint for keeping an increased distance between them. Still, he can’t stop himself from flinching every time the brake lights come on, or every time the construction lanes shift and veer around the road.

“Hey,” Clint suddenly says. “Question.”

Bucky forces his hand to loosen on the door handle. “What?”

“I got a friend—Scott Lang, you probably don’t know him—and he’s interested in photography. In film, mostly. He was asking me about cameras to buy.” Clint snickers. “I don’t know anything about cameras, though, so I said I’d ask you. Got any thoughts?”

Bucky takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “Uh. Well, if he’s just getting started, the Kiev is a good option. It’s an older Soviet one—that’s what I like—and it’s got two medium format models. The 88 and the 60. 60’s nice, less prone to light leaks. I have an 88. They’re pretty cheap. Money-wise, not quality. Although the quality can be odd sometimes...”

He keeps going, letting his mouth run away with him. He’s not sure if Clint’s really got a friend who wants to know about cameras, or if he’s just trying to distract Bucky, but either way he’s grateful for something to focus on. So he keeps listing cameras—probably getting way more into the nuances of them than necessary—and every time he pauses, Clint asks another question. At first Bucky thinks he’s just doing it to keep him talking, but then Clint starts asking about the difference between the shutter speeds and aperture, and questioning other terms, and Bucky starts to wonder if he’s actually interested after all.

They finally get off the highway, and navigate through the city streets until they find their motel. Clint parks the car in the lot and turns to grin at him. “Day one down,” he says, pointing at the clock. “And it’s only three in the afternoon. Look at that.”

Bucky nods and pries his hand from the door handle. “Thank you,” he says, and he means it for both the drive and the last hour. He’s still edgy, but he made it without a single panic attack, and that’s an accomplishment in and of itself.

Clint must pick up on that, because he nods and pats Bucky’s knee. “Anytime, buddy.” He gestures at the hotel. “Go check us in, I’ll grab our stuff.”

Bucky takes his backpack and goes in. The motel’s nicer than he expected, considering how cheap it was. He leans against the counter and rings the bell, and a moment later some old guy comes shuffling in from the back.

“Afternoon,” he says to Bucky as he adjusts his glasses. “Checking in?”

“Yeah. Reservation for Barnes.”

“Barnes...” He looks through the computer, frowning. “I don’t see a Barnes.”

“Bucky Barnes. I made it this morning.”

“Did you get a confirmation number?” Bucky shows it to him, and he puts it in, then nods. “There you are. Room 117.” He puts two keys on the counter, and Bucky takes them, waving them to Clint as he comes in with the bags.

“Got a room,” he says, taking his own bag. “This way.”

“Oh man,” Clint says. “I’m so glad to be out of the car, you have no fucking idea.” He pauses, then says, “That was dumb. Never mind.”

“I knew what you meant,” Bucky assures him, and pushes open the door.

The room is nice too. There’s a dresser, and a little TV, and a desk in the far corner. The shades are closed against the afternoon sunlight, creating a hazy glow in the room. Bucky studies the window, distantly thinking it might make an interesting picture with all those vertical lines—

“Uh,” Clint says, looking over his shoulder. “I thought you got two beds.”

“Huh?” Bucky tears his attention away from the shades, and realizes that Clint’s right. There is only one bed. It’s a king-sized bed, to be fair, but it’s only one bed. “I did. I swear I did.” He sets his bag down carefully and checks his email. “Yeah. Two beds, see?”

“Weird. Go tell the guy.”

Bucky does just that, brushing his way past Clint and going back out into the lobby. “Hey,” he says. “Um, we’re supposed to have two beds? We’ve only got one.”

“Oh,” the man says, and he skims through his computer again. “Well, unfortunately, sir, that’s all I have available.”

“But I reserved two beds,” Bucky says. “I’m not—we don’t—”

“This is all that’s available,” the man says again. “I do apologize. Sometimes our system gets mixed up. The best I can do for you is offer a partial refund, and I can see if we have any cots available. We might have one in the back.”

Bucky sighs. “Fine,” he says. “That’s fine. I’ll check back later.”

He works out the payment, then goes back to the room. Clint is sprawled on the bed, taking up as much space as possible. “Well?”

“This is what we get,” Bucky says. “The guy says he’ll try and look for a cot. I can sleep on the floor if he can’t find one, I’ve done it before. Or we can try and find a different place—”

Clint snorts. “Or we could just share?”

“What?”

“Share.” Clint gestures at the bed. “This is a king-sized bed, Barnes. Plenty of space.”

Bucky stares at him, then at the bed. “But...”

“I’m serious.” Clint rolls until he’s on one side of the bed, adjusting his sprawl to a slightly smaller position. “See? Lots and lots of room.”

“But...” Bucky trails off again, because he doesn’t really have a good reason to say no. Or at least, not a reason he wants to go into. He doesn’t think there’s a good way to say _I can’t share a bed because I am suddenly and unreasonably attracted to you, and I don’t think I can hide it if I have to lay next to you all night_. So he just swallows and says, “I guess you’re right.”

Clint grins. “I promise not to snuggle if you promise not to bite.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “If you keep calling me a vampire, I might actually bite you.”

“Promises, promises,” Clint shoots back. That’s accompanied by a half-startled look, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud, and for the third time that day, a weird tension settles between them.

Bucky doesn’t know what to _say_ to that, so he opts to say nothing. He texts Becca to tell her they’re done for the day, then goes towards the bathroom. “Find something for us to do,” he calls over his shoulder. “I want to walk around a bit. I’m tired of sitting down.”

Clint immediately perks up, shaking off the moment. “How do you feel about art?”

“Like, in general, or...”

“Toledo’s got an art museum I really want to see,” he says. “We’re only about twenty minutes away. If you don’t mind a tiny bit more driving. I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want to. But I think you’d like it. They’ve got an awesome photography exhibit, and it’s free.”

He looks insanely excited about this, and Bucky swallows down his thoughts about getting back in the truck. “Twenty minutes isn’t so bad,” he says. “I can do that.”

Clint lets out a little whoop of joy and scrambles off the bed, then trips over his own feet and tumbles to the floor. “Ow,” he wheezes, rolling onto his back. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” Bucky says with a straight face. “Do you see me laughing?”

“You’re laughing on the inside.”

“Well yeah, that was fucking hilarious. You okay?”

“My pride is wounded,” Clint says, clambering to his feet. “We’ll pretend that didn’t happen. You want to go now?”

“Bathroom first, and then yes.”

Clint beams. “Good. Hurry up, I don’t know when they close.”

“One minute,” Bucky agrees, and closes the door.

* * *

Toledo Art Museum is internationally known and very well-funded, with forty-five galleries and thirty thousand items on display. Bucky is a photographer, not an artist, but even he recognizes some of the names—Monet, Degas, Rembrandt, Miró, van Gogh. It’s an incredible collection. There is _so much_ to look at. Bucky’s pretty sure they could spend a full day here and never get through it all.

Clint stumbles over his words, excitedly gesturing to the different paintings, spinning through the rooms like a dancer as he moves from display to display. Bucky finds himself desperately wishing he’d brought his camera, even though he’d probably never get Clint to stand still enough for a shot. But Clint looks so _alive_ , so vibrant and happy, that Bucky just wants to freeze it for a moment. To immortalize the way he looks when he’s talking about _The Dancers_ , and how Degas’s use of pastel makes the work almost tangible, like the girls could dance out of it at any second. To capture the flash of sheer happiness on his face when they find a Rothko, and he shrugs off his jacket to show Bucky the tattoo on his arm, tracing his fingers over the squares as he talks about bold lines and colors and shapes. There are masterpieces in here, things worth millions of dollars, but the only thing Bucky can focus on—the only thing he _wants_ to focus on—is Clint.

Even the photography exhibit doesn’t compare. Bucky does take a moment to appreciate the sheer amount of talent around him, but then Clint starts asking questions about lighting and exposure and composition, and it’s all Bucky can do to answer them coherently as Clint takes him from piece to piece.

“Look at this one,” Clint says, pulling him over to a Gustave Le Gray.

“Check this out,” Clint says, pointing at the Ansel Adams display.

“You gotta see this,” Clint says, dragging him over to a landscape series.

“Amazing,” Bucky tells him every time, but he’s never looking at the pictures when he says it.

The museum closes before either one of them are ready to leave, and they linger to the point where a security guard has to forcibly usher them outside. Bucky thinks for half a second that they’re going to be arrested, but then Clint turns on his charm and starts asking about her favorite artists, and the end result is that they walk down the steps twenty minutes after the museum officially closes, both of them clutching tickets to a free glass blowing class.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Bucky says.

“Do what?”

“This.” He holds up the ticket. “You just...every single time.”

“It’s because I’m charming,” Clint drawls, flashing him a lazy grin. “And I smile at people. And I’m not a vampire.”

“I’m not a vampire,” Bucky sighs, turning to look down the street so Clint won’t see him smile. “Are you ever going to get over that joke? It’s been almost two years.”

“Never.” Clint zips his jacket a little tighter and glances up at the sky. “Is it supposed to rain?”

Bucky looks up too, noting the gathering thunderheads. “I’m gonna hazard a guess at yes,” he says. “We should probably go get dinner and get back to the motel.” He thinks about the bed again, and swallows hard. “You’re tired, and we’ll need to be up early again.”

Clint groans, but gets back in the truck. “Alright. Find us some dinner, then.”

Bucky finds a local place called Tony Packo’s. It’s Hungarian food, which neither of them have ever had before, but it looks damn good, and Clint’s eyes light up at the first mention of chili dogs. Which is how they find themselves later sitting at a table outside, keeping an eye on the horizon, and working their way through chili dogs and a frankly _ridiculous_ amount of fries.

“Check it out,” Bucky says, and draws a ketchup rectangle, then arranges a couple of fries in an adjacent square. “It’s a Rothko.”

Clint bursts out laughing. “Needs more contrast,” he says, and folds a white napkin into a smaller square. “There you go. _Now_ it’s a Rothko.”

“I’ll call the museum,” Bucky says, and Clint laughs again, reaching over to steal the last fry.

“We’ll be famous,” he agrees. “Should’ve brought your camera, you could take pictures of our process.”

“Should’ve,” Bucky agrees, watching the way Clint’s hair blows in the increasing breeze. He looks at the sky. “We should get out of here, though. That looks like a nasty storm.”

“Yeah.” Clint frowns. “That came up real quick. Hope it’s over before tomorrow. I don’t want to drive in that.”

“Me neither.” Bucky gathers up the trash and tosses it, then gestures to the truck. “Let’s go.”

They’ve just barely parked the truck when the rain starts, a wall of water sweeping through the parking lot and slamming into them with a vengeance.

“Damn,” Clint says, looking up at the sky. “Well. Guess we’re running.”

Bucky puts his hand on the door handle. “Count of three?”

“You’re on.”

It’s not a long sprint across the parking lot, but it’s raining hard enough that both of them are soaked by the time they make it inside. Clint shakes the water out of his hair and laughs.“You look like a drowned rat,” he says, grinning as Bucky wipes his face off, doing his best to put his hair into some semblance of normal.

“You’re one to talk,” Bucky says, eyeing the way Clint’s tank top is clinging to him. It’s thin enough to be semi see-through anyway, and now that it’s soaking wet, Bucky can see the outlines of more tattoos underneath it. He squashes down the urge to pull it over Clint’s head so he can get a better look at them. “Anyway. I’m gonna tell the guy we don’t need a cot, why don’t you go dry off?”

“I’m gonna shower, actually,” Clint says. “Can you ask him for more pillows? There’s only like five on the bed, and I need more.”

“How many is more?”

“At least twenty-seven,” Clint says, grinning at him. “But I’ll settle for four.”

Bucky snickers. “Okay.”

He gets more pillows, and a couple extra blankets just for good measure, then hauls them all down to the room. Clint’s in the shower, so he just drops them on the bed and strips off his wet jacket, draping it over the chair next to Clint’s clothes.

He’s sprawled on the bed, watching some shitty cooking show on the grainy television when the water shuts off in the bathroom and the door opens. “Avert your eyes,” Clint says, and Bucky looks over at him instead.

His brain just fucking flatlines at the sight, because Clint’s wearing _nothing_ except some water droplets and a tiny motel towel that’s slung obscenely low across his hips, barely big enough to wrap all the way around him. Bucky stares, because there are _more_ tattoos across his ribs, barely illuminated in the dim light of the bathroom behind him. There’s an explosion of color across his left ribcage, what looks like a cathedral set into a background of yellows and reds. He recognizes it after a moment—it’s a Monet, one of the Venice ones, Clint had just showed it to him in the museum, had been insanely excited about it, now Bucky knows why—

“I said _avert_ your eyes,” Clint says with a grin, raising an eyebrow at Bucky. “That’s like...the exact opposite.”

“I...” Bucky says, because he can’t stop staring, and he doesn’t even really want to try. There’s just so much to _look_ at, so much color and contrast and Bucky wants a picture so badly but he also wants to touch—

He gets off the bed, rolling to his feet in one smooth motion, and moves across the room like he’s in a dream. Clint tilts his head, expression curious, and just waits, letting Bucky step right into his space.

“Can I?” Bucky murmurs, reaching forward with his right hand, fingertips barely centimeters from the Rothko.

Clint blinks, then in a rough voice says, “Yeah.”

Bucky’s hand settles onto the red rectangle, thumb barely skimming over the ink. He’s never really understood Rothko, never got the point of just rectangles of solid colors, but _this_ —god, he could look at this all day and never get bored of it.

He moves down Clint’s left arm, following the lines of ink as the Rothko turns into that _terrible_ Nirvana smiley face, then moves down to the music notes that tiptoe their way down to his wrist from his elbow, snaking their way through a series of flowers set against a fiery background. Clint shivers as Bucky’s fingertips ghost over the colors, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Why?” Bucky asks, trailing back up to the smiley face.

Clint smiles a little. “Lots of reasons. But mostly I was fifteen, pissed off, and had my own tattoo machine.” He looks at it. “It was my first one, ever.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.” Clint’s eyes go distant, and he sucks at his lip ring, then says, “I had a really hard time, after losing my hearing. I was...not in a good place.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “It’s hard to explain.”

“I get it,” Bucky murmurs, looking down at the gleaming metal of his own left arm.

Clint follows his gaze, then nods. “I guess you would,” he says quietly. “More than most.” He grips the towel tighter, then adds, “It was about control, I think.”

Bucky just nods, because that’s something he understands too.

“I didn’t feel like I had any,” Clint says. “I was—I was so mad all the time, and I couldn’t hear, and I wasn’t doing well in school, and I just—I was spiraling hard. I needed _something_. So I bought a tattoo machine, and learned how to use it, and...” He trails off, shrugging one shoulder. “And since I was fifteen and pissed off...”

“Nirvana,” Bucky finishes for him. “Yeah.”

“Sometimes I wish it was better,” Clint says, twisting his arm to look at it. “But also I don’t, because it’s _me_. It’s...” He thinks for a moment, a frustrated look on his face. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“It’s memory,” Bucky says. “A turning point.”

Clint nods. “I was still angry, after that, but I’d decided to keep going anyway, you know? It was something to hold onto.” He drops his arm back, pulling it away from Bucky’s touch. “It was _mine_ , at a point when nothing else really was.”

Bucky swallows hard, dropping his hand down to his side. The words hit home for him, piercing his heart in a way he didn’t know was possible. Because he’d felt the same thing, once upon a time—broken, spiraling out of control and so _angry_ at everything. He knows exactly what that’s like.

“My first camera was a Polaroid,” he says. “I got it at a pawnshop, maybe a year after the accident.” He laughs softly. “It was a piece of shit, really. Half-broken, barely functional. Cost me five bucks. The pictures are all blurry, and overexposed, and they’re just...awful.” He laughs again. “But they’re _mine_. And I realized while I was taking them that I could—I could—”

Bucky stops, closing his eyes. Clint’s hand settles on his arm, a bright spot of warmth against his skin. “Hey,” he whispers, and Bucky takes a shuddering breath.

“I could tell a story,” he finishes. “I could make people _feel_ something besides being sorry for what happened to me, and it just—it...”

“I know,” Clint says, and Bucky opens his eyes. Clint is so close to him now, blue eyes intent on his, honest and sincere. “I _know_.” He moves his hand up to Bucky’s face, and it’s not until his thumb brushes away the tears there that Bucky realizes he’s crying.

Clint’s palm settles against his cheek, and there’s a moment where they stop like that, connected by that single point of contact as they look at each other, a thousand more unspoken words between them.

Then Bucky leans forward, and Clint meets him the rest of the way, and there’s a flutter in his stomach as their lips touch, soft as anything he’s ever felt.

It’s like a dream, Bucky thinks at first. And maybe it _is_ a dream, because the world seems to slow around them, time coming to a stop as Clint’s mouth opens against his, tongue pressing forward in a slow exploration. He steps even closer, pressing their bodies together, moving backwards until they bump into the wall, the quiet _thud_ loud in the silence of the room.

“Ow,” Clint mumbles against his mouth, his free hand automatically going to the back of his head.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles back. “You okay?”

In answer, Clint kisses him again, wrapping his hand in Bucky’s wet shirt to pull him closer. The kiss turns into something deeper, a building of intensity that leaves them clinging to each other, like they’re the only solid things in the entire world. Clint kisses him like he needs it, like Bucky is water and he’s dying of thirst, both his arms looping around Bucky’s shoulders—

They realize this at the same time, both of them pausing as the towel slips down Clint’s legs, draping against his feet. Then Clint chuckles low in his throat and says, “Oops.”

Bucky can feel him against his leg, the outline of Clint’s cock hardening against his thigh. He resists the urge to look, to touch, and instead kisses him one more time before murmuring, “I want to take you to bed.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Clint says, and smiles, the brilliance of it almost tangible, lighting up their little corner of the dim room.

“Is that a yes?”

“Definitely.”

Bucky stumbles backwards, pulling Clint along with him, unable or unwilling to stop kissing him even for a second. They tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, laughing as they collide awkwardly, rolling on the covers until Clint is beneath Bucky, boneless under his weight. He grins up at him and tugs at his shirt. “Too many clothes,” he says, and Bucky strips his shirt off without hesitation, tossing it across the room to land on the floor. When he looks back down, Clint is staring at him, eyes dark with desire as he flattens his hand against Bucky’s chest. “Wow,” is all he says, and it’s so _Clint_ of him that Bucky can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Clint demands.

“You’re adorable,” Bucky says, and leans over to turn the lamp on. A soft glow spills over them, and Bucky sits up, skimming his hands over Clint’s arms.

“You got a thing for tattoos, huh?” Clint asks.

“Got a thing for _you_ ,” Bucky tells him, and Clint blushes, his skin turning pink under Bucky’s fingers. “But yeah. They’re just...they’re incredible.” He touches the Nirvana one again, made all the more intriguing for the story behind it. Then he moves Clint’s right arm, pulling it away from his body so he can see the massive piece taking up the entirety of his right side. It’s a man, fantastically handsome, sitting on some kind of stone. He’s nude, except for a cloth draped over his thighs, and there’s a chain around his right foot. A mandorla of bat wings shape around him from head to toe. It’s beautiful, and oddly alluring, and Bucky can’t take his eyes off it.

“Is that a vampire?” he asks after a moment, and Clint bursts out with a delighted peal of laughter.

“No,” he says, when he can breathe again. “It’s _Le génie du mal_. It’s Satan. But I can see why you’d think that.”

“He’s kinda hot,” Bucky says.

“He is.” Clint shifts a little, putting it more into view.

“What does it mean?”

Clint flashes a mysterious smile and shakes his head. “Story for later,” he says, and Bucky nods, letting it go for the moment. It’s enough that he can see it. He doesn’t need to know right this second. Not when there’s so many other things they could be doing.

He leans down and kisses Clint, tongue swiping over his lip ring. Clint groans and opens his mouth, letting Bucky in without a protest. Bucky’s never understood why people describe kissing as melting, but he thinks he might now. He feels like he’s dissolving, like he might drift into nothingness at any second if it wasn’t for the firm grip of Clint’s hands around his shoulders to keep him grounded.

He shifts his way down Clint’s neck, sliding a hand into his hair and tugging his head to the side to bare more skin. Clint chuckles, squirming underneath him. “Vampire,” he says as Bucky scrapes his teeth over his pulse point. “I fucking called it.”

“You got me,” Bucky says, sucking a bruising kiss right onto the delicate skin. Clint shudders in his grip, pushing his hips up to grind against Bucky’s thigh.

“Too many clothes,” he says again, and moves his hands down to the button of Bucky’s jeans. “Not that— _fuck_ —they don’t look— _Bucky_ —damn good on you—”

“If you want me naked,” Bucky says, biting at the arrow tattooed along his right clavicle, “then you should just ask for it.”

“Please get naked,” Clint says immediately, and Bucky grins, rolling off him. He struggles with his skinny jeans for a moment—they’re a bitch to take off anyway, but when they’re _wet_ it’s even worse—and finally manages to shove them off along with his socks and shoes, hurling all of it into the corner of the room. “That’s better.”

“I aim to please,” Bucky says, crawling back over to him. He drags his fingers over _Le génie du mal_ again, then over the sharp lines and bold colors of a Kandinsky spiraling around his right forearm. It’s not one that Bucky’s familiar with, but he likes it—it looks like a ship at low tide, struggling to stay upright as it’s blown by the lines of wind. “Which one is this?”

“ _Delicate Tension_ ,” Clint says, holding it up. “It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Balance.” He smirks, then hooks his leg around Bucky’s waist and twists. In a single second, Bucky finds himself flat on the bed, looking up at Clint’s self-satisfied smile.

“Balance,” Bucky repeats, as Clint takes his wrists and presses them into the covers by his head.

“It’s fragile,” Clint says. “A hard thing to find.” He holds up his arm, tracing over the lines with his own fingers. “It’s a reminder to keep looking, when I can’t find it.”

“Can be hard to find sometimes,” Bucky murmurs, thinking about his own struggles with it.

“It’s worth searching for.” Clint presses a trail of heated kisses down his sternum. “I found mine in art, and you got yours from a camera, and I don’t think either of us would be here otherwise.”

Probably not, if he’s honest with himself. Bucky was lost until he found that shitty camera, until he took that half-blurry picture of Becca, trying to frame her just right so he could catch the joy in her eyes as she smiled at him. He’d been desperate for something to hold onto. That picture probably saved his life.

Clint studies him, a tender expression on his face, like he knows exactly what Bucky is thinking. Then he moves to the side, teasing at a nipple with his tongue piercing and every single one of Bucky’s thoughts derail in favor of gasping sharply and arching into his mouth. “Fuck,” he chokes out, fists clenching in the sheets. “Jesus.”

“Not my name,” Clint says, pulling off. “But I’m flattered.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky says as Clint moves to the other side, giving it the same treatment before sliding his way down Bucky’s body.

“Be nice to me,” he says, wrapping one hand around Bucky’s cock, already hard and leaking. He strokes it lazily, drinking in the way that Bucky’s hips twitch up into the contact. “Or else I’m just gonna do _this_ all night.”

Bucky cuts off his strangled protest and looks down at him, reading the smirk playing across his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “Please.”

“Please what?” The smirk gets wider, and Clint rubs his thumb over the tip, spreading the fluid around. Then he raises his thumb to his mouth and licks it clean.

“I don’t know,” Bucky manages, and it’s the truth. He doesn’t have the words for this, he just knows he _wants_ , knows he’s desperate to touch Clint, and have Clint touch him. He’s never felt like this before, even back before the accident when he wasn’t shy about putting notches in his bedpost. He’s never been so strung out from just a little kissing, from the barest of touches on his skin, from just _looking_ at his partner.

Clint presses a reverent kiss to the curve of his hipbone, then reaches to brush his hair out of his face. “Okay,” he says quietly, a serious expression stealing over his face. “You’ll tell me if I need to stop?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, forcing the word past the lump in his throat, because he suddenly remembers Clint asking that same thing in the car that morning, and how carefully he’d driven all day, and the way he’d spent the last hour of the drive listening to Bucky go on about cameras. There is so much _care_ in him, and Bucky feels like something precious under his touch, like everything about him is important.

“Okay,” Clint murmurs again, and he licks a long stripe up Bucky’s cock, laving his tongue over the head. Bucky forces himself to hold still, fighting against every instinct to thrust up into the wet heat of Clint’s mouth. It’s a task made harder by watching, but he can’t take his eyes off the way Clint’s lips are wrapped around his dick, the enraptured expression he makes as he takes Bucky deeper, wrapping his hand around the base. Bucky _whimpers_ as he slides up in a sinfully slow motion, swirling his tongue around the head before going back down again. It’s perfect, and it’s torturous, and Bucky never wants it to end, not ever—

Clint’s eyes flick up to meet his, and he hums quietly, the unexpected vibrations adding a whole other level to it. Bucky whimpers again, hips twitching, and he carefully moves his right hand, pushing Clint’s hair out of his face as he wraps his fingers in it. Clint hums again, eyes closing briefly. He pulls off Bucky’s dick long enough to say, “I like that,” before resuming the world’s slowest blowjob.

The world narrows to those two things—Bucky’s hand in Clint’s hair, and the steady way Clint is working him up to the edge. He can feel his orgasm building in him, a low heat suffusing through his bones, and he knows that when it finally happens it’s going to _shatter_ him.

“Clint,” he finally gets out, and Clint pauses, then picks his head up. “You gotta stop, I—” He closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath. “I’m going to—”

“It’s okay,” Clint says, a little breathless himself. “I want you to.”

“But I wanted to fuck you—” Bucky clenches his fist in the covers. “If you want.”

“I do,” Clint says, eyes going dark. “But we’ve got all night. If you think I’m taking my hands off you again, you’re crazy.” He runs his hands over Bucky’s legs, gripping his thighs. “I want you to come for me. I want to see it. Please, Bucky.”

Fuck, he can’t say no, not with the pleading way Clint is looking at him. “Okay,” he says, nodding, and Clint beams at him before taking Bucky back into his mouth, moving a little bit faster, flicking his tongue piercing over all the spots that make Bucky cry out and fight to hold still. He’s already dangerously close to the edge, and it doesn’t take long for his fingers to tighten in Clint’s hair, a guttural warning echoing in his throat.

It doesn’t shatter him, but it’s damn close. A wave of pleasure sweeps through him, burning in its intensity, and Bucky comes with a shout, eyes sliding closed as he gasps for breath. His other hand slips from above his head, slamming into the bed by his waist, and he arches up, seeking the perfect heat of Clint’s mouth.

Clint pushes him back down, pinning him to the bed with a fierce grip. He keeps sucking, taking Bucky through the orgasm and then a little bit beyond. He doesn’t move until Bucky pries his numb fingers out of his hair. “Stop,” he says, or at least that’s what he tries to say. It comes out as unintelligible slur.

Clint pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was fucking incredible,” he says. His voice sounds _wrecked_ , and Bucky shivers, reaching out for him.

Clint immediately crawls back up his body, slotting their mouths together. Bucky can taste himself on Clint’s tongue. It’s unspeakably hot, and he moans into it. “So good,” he mumbles against Clint’s mouth. “Made me feel so good.”

“Like making you feel good,” Clint says back, kissing him again. Bucky sighs into it, losing himself in the simple action of it, tongues and lips moving against each other in a steady rhythm. Clint is a comforting weight on top of him, sprawled over Bucky’s body like he’s always belonged there. Bucky holds onto him, sliding his arms around him, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“Let me,” he finally says, breaking off the kiss. “I want—you—let me—”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah, okay.”

Bucky forces his boneless body to roll until Clint is underneath him again. Then he trails his mouth down Clint’s chest, following the same path he took on Bucky. Clint squirms as Bucky presses open mouthed kisses to the Monet, tasting the shades of twilight spilling across his skin. Then he moves to the other side, pausing over _Le génie du mal._ “Is it a sin to kiss the devil?” he asks, and Clint snorts.

“Depends on what rules we’re playing by,” he says. “But I can always put in a good word for you.”

Bucky pauses, because he’s one-hundred percent sure that this is the setup to a shitty joke. But Clint’s mouth is curving in an anticipatory smile, and Bucky is helpless to resist. “Why?”

“Because I’ve got him on my side.”

Bucky looks at the tattoo, then up at Clint’s shit-eating grin. “Oh _god_ ,” he finally says, dropping his forehead onto Clint’s chest. “That was _awful_.”

“That was _great_ ,” Clint says, and then they’re both laughing hysterically, to the point where tears are blurring Bucky’s vision, and he has to wheeze in a breath with some high pitched shrieking noise.

“Besides,” Clint adds between giggles, “I already kissed a vampire, so—“

“Talkin’ about me, not you,” Bucky says, pulling himself together. “And I’m not a vampire.” He scrapes his teeth over Clint’s skin, making him shiver. “Gonna bite you if you keep calling me one, though.”

“Promises, promises,” Clint says, like he did earlier. Except this time he raises his eyebrows at Bucky, making it a challenge.

“I don’t think you want to say that when I’m about to suck your dick,” Bucky tells him, and Clint’s eyes go comically wide.

“You wouldn’t,” he says.

“I might.” Bucky slides lower, barely ghosting his mouth over Clint’s dick. “You wanna find out?”

Clint shakes his head immediately. “You’re not a vampire,” he says, and Bucky grins at him before wrapping his mouth around Clint. He hasn’t done this in a long time, so he takes it slow, keeping his eyes on Clint to try and find what spots make him react the loudest. He loves this, always has, and now it’s ten times better because of how Clint is _looking_ at him, shuddering and shivering under his mouth. Bucky is so far gone for him, for the way he tastes and the way he sounds, and the way Clint’s eyes are fixed on him like Bucky’s the best thing he’s ever seen—

“Bucky,” Clint gasps. “Bucky, Bucky, wait—“

“You gonna come for me?” Bucky asks, dragging his tongue up the length of him. “Huh?”

“I will,” Clint says, “if you want—but I want you—” He cuts off as Bucky sucks just under the head, rocking his hips into it. “Fuck—I want—fuck me, please—”

“Okay,” Bucky says, relenting. “I can do that.”

Clint pants for a moment, hands twisting in the covers, then says, “Lube.”

“Do you have any?”

“My bag.” Clint points, and Bucky glances over, then carefully gets to his feet.

“No touching,” he says, and goes over to Clint’s bag. “Where is it?”

“Bring it here.” Bucky takes it to the bed, and Clint pushes himself up enough to dig through the contents. He pulls out a couple condoms and a bottle of Astroglide, then shoves them into Bucky’s hands and pushes the bag to the floor. “There.”

Bucky looks at his hands. “Do you just always carry these?”

Clint shrugs. “I like sex,” he says, and well. That’s fair. Bucky was the same way, once upon a time. “Besides, it’s better to be prepared. Nothing ruins the moment like running to a CVS for condoms.”

“That’s true,” Bucky says, and sets them on the bed. “You want me to do this?” Clint nods. “Okay. Roll over for me. Hands and knees.”

Clint immediately complies, scrambling into position. Bucky gets on the bed behind him, then stops, staring at Clint’s ass. Partially because it’s a nice ass, but also because—

“Why,” he says, leaning over Clint’s back, “do you have the word ‘tattoo’ tattooed on your ass?”

Clint snorts. “I forgot about that,” he says, reaching back to touch it. “I don’t know. I was drunk. My roommate was drunk. We thought it was funny.” He puts his hand back. “Turned out pretty well, considering that neither of us could see straight.”

He’s got a point, but Bucky just shakes his head. “You’re so weird.”

“You say weird, I say interesting.” Clint bumps back into him. “You gonna do this, or just admire my ass all night?”

“I’m multitasking,” Bucky says. “I can check you out and get my fingers in you at the same time.”

“Prove it,” Clint says, grinning at him, and Bucky makes a face before putting his hands on Clint’s ass, spreading him open to get a better look. “Ah, _fuck_.”

“Why don’t you have anything on your back?” Bucky asks, letting go to pour lube on his fingers.

“Haven’t decided what—” He breaks off with a quiet moan as Bucky’s thumb rubs around his hole. “ _Fuck_ —what I want there.”

“Big space,” Bucky says, sliding a finger in. “Room for all kinds of things”

“Mm— _Jesus_ —yeah, I know— _god, Bucky_ —I just need to think— _motherfuck_ —”

Bucky laughs, watching Clint writhe. “You gonna do one big piece or a bunch of little ones?”

“I don’t know,” Clint pants, pushing back into his hand. “More—Bucky, _more_ —”

Bucky adds a second finger, fucking him with shallow movements. Clint shudders, dropping his head down to rest between his hands, curving his spine and pushing his hips higher. Bucky loves Clint’s tattoos, but he likes this negative space too. Likes the blank expanse of it, the potential just waiting to be unleashed. It’s like undeveloped film, full of a thousand possibilities.

And freckles. So many freckles.

_Beautiful_ , Bucky thinks, and it’s not until Clint makes a little choked noise under him that he realizes he said it out loud.

“You are,” he says, pushing his fingers a little deeper, nudging them against Clint’s prostate until he whines and shivers. “So beautiful. I could look at you forever.”

“It’s the tattoos,” Clint says into the blanket.

“It’s _you_ ,” Bucky tells him. “Did you not notice me staring at you all day?”

“I did, actually.” He pushes into Bucky’s hand again. “It was funny.”

“You’re easy to look at,” Bucky says, feeling jealous of his own fingers as they sink into the heat of Clint’s body. He reaches down with his other hand, wrapping his fist around his aching cock.“I can’t stop. I just—I want to take a thousand pictures of you—”

“So fuck me,” Clint interrupts, “and you can take as many as you want after.” He pushes back up onto his hands and glances over his shoulder at Bucky, expression open and pleading. “I want you in me.”

“I am in you,” Bucky says, wiggling his fingers, and Clint jolts forward, nearly collapsing onto the bed. “Is that not enough?”

“It’s _enough_ ,” Clint says when he’s got his breath back. “You’re a goddamn tease, you know that?”

“Can’t help it.” Bucky wiggles his fingers again, and Clint bites off a string of curses, dropping his head down as he pants. “You should be more specific—”

Clint growls something unintelligible and moves forward, letting Bucky’s fingers slip out of him entirely. Then he turns around, coming up onto his knees to crash his lips against Bucky’s, reaching down to grab at his cock, knocking Bucky’s hand aside. “I want _this_ in me,” he says against Bucky’s mouth, other hand gripping at his shoulder. He moves his hand in a few short strokes. “I want to fuck myself on your dick, is that _specific_ enough for you?”

“That works,” Bucky gasps, hips thrusting into the tight grip of his hand. “That’s—that’s good.”

“Lay down, then.” Clint pushes at him, and Bucky tumbles onto the bed, flopping onto his back. Clint grabs a condom and tears it open, then rolls it onto Bucky with efficient movements. “Specific,” he mutters, rolling his eyes as he pops the lube open, spreading it over Bucky’s cock. “Really.”

Bucky starts to respond, but words fail him as Clint swings a leg over him, then sinks onto his cock with a low groan. “Fuck,” he mutters, hands settling onto Clint’s hips. “Fu-uck.”

“There we go,” Clint says, slowly sliding down him. Bucky lets him take his time, more then content to watch his face as he settles into it, fucking himself in little motions until Bucky’s fully in him.

“Fuck,” Bucky says again, because that’s pretty much the only word left in his vocabulary. Clint feels so goddamn good around him, so tight and hot, and Bucky’s pretty sure this is going to be the death of him. He’s trembling with the effort of holding himself still, trying to let Clint set the pace so he doesn’t go too fast.

Clint takes a deep breath, smoothing his hands over Bucky’s chest. “Should get you some tattoos,” he says, all conversational, like Bucky’s not balls-deep in him right now. “I have some ideas.”

“I’ve got one,” Bucky says, gripping him tighter.

Clint looks intrigued, eyes immediately skimming over his body. “What? Where?”

“I’ll show you later.”

“Now,” Clint says, clenching around him, and Bucky chokes at the sudden sensation.

“It’s on the back of my head,” he manages. “You can’t see it from here, I’ll show you later, will you please just _move_?”

Clint grins at him, then slides his hands over to Bucky’s arms. “I am moving,” he says, tip-tapping his fingers up and down. “If you want something else, you should be more _specific_.”

“I hate you,” Bucky says, thrusting up into him.

“Not so fun from the other side, is it?” Clint asks, laughing. He rolls his hips, watching Bucky’s face intently. “That’ll teach you not to be an asshole.”

Bucky moves his hand down to Clint’s dick, lightly dragging a fingertip from base to tip. Clint jerks into the movement, clenching around him, and they both gasp at the feeling. “Again,” Bucky demands, and he grips Clint a little more tightly, swiping his thumb over the head. “C’mon, can you just—”

“Getting there,” Clint says, at least having the decency to sound a little wrecked as Bucky slowly works his cock. “Maybe I want to take my time. Maybe I like watching you come apart like this.” He moans, tilting his head back, then adds, “Haven’t even _done_ anything and you’re already close, you know how hot that is?”

“I’m close to flipping you over and fucking you into this bed,” Bucky growls. “If you don’t—fucking—move—”

Clint smirks, slowly sliding up Bucky’s dick before dropping back down with a quiet groan. “Fuck,” he breathes, doing it again. “God, you feel good.”

He sets up a steady rhythm—too slow for Bucky’s taste, but it’s better than just _sitting_ there, so he keeps his damn mouth shut. He keeps his hand working on Clint’s dick, matching his movements to everything Clint is doing, because two can play at that game. Bucky’s pretty sure Clint notices, but he doesn’t really care, lost as he is in the tight heat around him, and the way Clint gasps every time Bucky thrusts up to meet him. It’s so goddamn good, Bucky wants to stay here forever, in this moment where it’s just him and Clint and everything is _perfect_ —

“Bucky,” Clint moans, pupils blown wide with lust as he looks down at Bucky, rocking onto him in a slow, dirty grind. He tugs Bucky’s other hand off his hip, tangles their fingers together in a tight grip. “Fuck, I’m so close—”

“Come for me,” Bucky says, breathless. “Come for me, Clint, come on, I want you to—”

Clint shudders above him, head tipping back, and he tightens around Bucky, spilling into his hand and over his stomach with a low cry. “Fuck,” he grits out, blinking back tears. “Oh _god_ —”

“I got you,” Bucky murmurs, working him through it. “I got you, Clint, you look so fucking good like that, _Christ_ —”

He can feel himself getting close too, waves of it roiling through him, and he does his best to hold it off, to keep talking as Clint thrusts into his hand, chasing the last traces of it. He looks _beautiful_ , lost in his own pleasure, a sheen of sweat covering him, glinting in the dim light of the lamp.

Clint stills after a moment, dragging in a deep breath, and looks down at him. “Bucky,” he says softly, and Bucky’s suddenly blinking back his own tears at the reverent way Clint says his name, like he’s the answer to a prayer. “Fuck, that was—are you close—”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, letting go of him. “But I can just—you don’t have to—”

Clint leans down and kisses him. “I want to,” he says softly. “I want you to. Flip me over and fuck me into the bed, I want that, _please_ —“

Bucky doesn’t need telling twice. He grabs Clint and rolls them both until Clint’s on his back, then grabs his hips, pulling him up sharply. Clint gasps, eyes going wide as Bucky fucks into him with something bordering on ruthlessness. It doesn’t take long—he’s already so close, and the short _ah-ah-ahs_ that Clint lets out every time Bucky hits the right spot just pushes him over even more—

He thrusts forward one last time, barely managing to catch himself as he collapses over Clint. His orgasm burns through him like a fire, utterly devastating and brutal, leaving nothing in its wake. He drops his head onto Clint’s chest, chest heaving as he tries to remember how to breathe, arms trembling under his own weight.

Clint wraps his legs around Bucky, pulling him in even closer. “I got you too,” he says, carding his fingers through Bucky’s sweat-damp hair. “I got you.”

Bucky nods against his skin, mind still blank. “Doin’ good,” he mumbles, not really sure what he means by that. It seems to be the right thing to say, though because Clint hums happily and kisses his head, gently trailing his other hand up Bucky’s arm.

When he’s got some semblance of motor control back, he eases himself out of Clint and rolls onto his back, then strips off the condom and tosses it into the trash. He should move, he thinks, maybe, do something to get them both cleaned up, but his limbs are liquid, and he just doesn’t have the energy for it.

Clint mumbles something, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Wha,” Bucky mumbles back.

“Tattoo,” Clint says again, and Bucky nods, rolling a little bit more so Clint can see the back of his head. Soft fingers trace over the star at the back of his skull, following the outline of it. “Cool.”

“Mmm.” Bucky leans back into his hand, chasing the soothing pressure of Clint’s fingers. “Thanks.”

They stay like that for a long while Clint absently rubbing Bucky’s head the whole time. Eventually, though, Bucky manages to drag himself out of bed. He pads into the bathroom to clean himself up, then takes a warm cloth back out to Clint. “C’mere,” he murmurs, gently moving it along Clint’s body, cleaning him up.

“Thanks,” Clint says, forcing his eyes open. He sits up a little bit, then tugs Bucky in for a kiss. “That was nice.”

“Welcome,” Bucky says back. He takes the cloth back into the bathroom and drops it in the tub, then picks up his phone from the dresser. “Gotta set an alarm,” he says, and Clint groans. “Probably not as early, but we should still be on the road—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint says, waving a hand. “Early. Fuck.”

“We can do that too, if we leave ourselves time.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “And you thought _my_ jokes were bad.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that one was good.” Bucky sets an alarm for six, then goes back over to the bed. It takes him a moment to coax Clint into moving enough for him to strip back the covers, but he manages it. He gets into bed on the other side, trying to leave a respectable distance between them. Clint joked about snuggling, but he’s not sure—

“Too far,” Clint says, and flops over, throwing an arm across Bucky. “That’s better.”

Not joking, then. Bucky smiles tiredly and pulls him closer, arranging them to a slightly more comfortable position. Then he reaches over and clicks off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“I’m surprised,” Clint says a moment later.

“About?”

“You.” Clint shifts slightly, then adds, “Don’t vampires usually sleep during the day?”

Bucky snorts. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, dropping a kiss onto his head. “And go to sleep.”

Clint chuckles as he pulls out his hearing aids, dropping them on the nightstand, then settles his head onto Bucky’s chest. “Night,” he murmurs, breathing already evening out into something deeper.

“Night,” Bucky murmurs back, and lets himself drift off too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> All artwork by [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky studies the Kandinsky on his arm. It’s appropriately named, he thinks, eyes drifting over the bright colors and firm lines that dance their way over his skin. _Delicate Tension._ Something perfectly balanced and utterly fragile, held together by only a few lines.
> 
> Kind of like whatever is happening between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for shitty parents

The alarm goes off too damn early, and it takes Bucky a second to place where he is, eyes skimming over the unfamiliar shapes of the room before he remembers. Motel. Road trip.

Clint.

Bucky turns it off and looks down at his chest, where Clint is still sleeping on him. He’s dead to the world, snoring softly, draped over Bucky like a blanket.

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, brushing a gentle hand over his hair. “Clint.” He reaches over to the nightstand and picks up one of his hearing aids, carefully fitting it into Clint’s ear. “Clint.”

“Mmmmmph,” comes the response, the sound of it rumbling through Bucky’s chest. He reaches up and adjusts the aid with a fumbling hand. “No.”

“We gotta get up,” Bucky tells him. “We gotta drive.”

“Stay.”

“Graduation.”

“Stay.”

Bucky smiles fondly. “Up,” he says, tapping Clint’s shoulder. “Come on. You’re hot.”

“Mmhmm,” Clint agrees, not moving.

Bucky works his metal arm underneath him, then pushes gently, rolling him to the other side of the bed “I’m gonna shower,” he says. “I want you awake when I get back.”

Clint waves a hand in a vague gesture, which Bucky takes for agreement. He pats Clint’s shoulder, then gets up, fumbling around in his bag until he finds a change of clothes.

The shower is terrible—more of a trickle than a shower—but he makes the best of it. When he’s done, he wraps a towel around his waist and pokes his head out the door, waving away the steam to squint into the darkness of the room. “Have you moved at _all_?”

“You said awake,” comes the mumbling voice. “Not moving.”

“Clint,” Bucky sighs. “We have to go soon.”

“Uuuugh.” There’s a rustling of blankets, and then a thumping noise. “Ow.”

“Did you fall off the bed?”

“No.” A pause, and then, “Yes.”

Bucky grins. “Start getting dressed,” he says, “and I’ll go see what this place has for breakfast. Maybe bring you back some coffee.”

Clint’s head appears on the other side of the bed. His hair looks like a haystack, all wild and sleep-tousled. It’s adorable. “Coffee,” he repeats, rubbing at his eyes with one clumsy hand. “Okay.”

He looks up, squinting at Bucky in the towel, and a sleepy smile rolls over his face. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Bucky echoes. “Clothes.”

Clint throws an arm on the bed and props his chin on it, unabashedly staring at Bucky. “No clothes.”

“Yes, clothes.” Bucky goes back into the bathroom and gets dressed, then brushes his teeth. By the time he comes back out, Clint’s half-asleep on the bed again, leaning on it in what’s got to be a very uncomfortable position. “Clint!”

“Mmmph.” Clint cracks an eye open at him, then offers a sad frown. “Clothes.”

Bucky sighs. “Are you like this every morning?”

Clint nods.

Bucky rolls his eyes, then goes past him to open the drapes. It’s early enough that the sun’s just coming up, but it lets in enough light that the room brightens. Clint makes a vague hissing noise and buries his face in the bed.

“I thought _I_ was the vampire,” Bucky mutters, fighting back laughter as he watches Clint curl up in the blankets. “Come on. Up.”

“Noooooo,” Clint moans.

“Don’t make me middle name you.”

At that, Clint tilts his head and opens one eye, narrowing it at Bucky. “You dunno it.”

“Clinton Francis Barton,” Bucky says, and Clint shoves his face back into the blanket with a low groan. “Get the fuck up. I will call you that all day.”

“Nooooo,” Clint whines again, but he does start to get up, slowly moving uncoordinated limbs until he’s on his feet, leaning on his hands over the bed. He’s still naked, and Bucky has to actively prevent himself from touching. Not that he doesn’t want to—he _so_ does—but they really do need to get going.

He gently pulls on Clint’s arm. “Come on. Get dressed and I’ll kiss you, how’s that sound?”

Clint perks up a little at that. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Clint stumbles over to his bag. Bucky watches as he rifles through it with one hand, other one rubbing at his eyes again. He grabs the same pants he was wearing yesterday and awkwardly pulls them on, stumbling from foot to foot.

“Underwear?” Bucky asks.

Clint blinks and looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Don’t have any.”

“At all?”

“Don’t wear ‘em.” He hikes the pants around his hips and ties them, then fumbles around in his bag before dragging a shirt over his head.

Bucky watches him, then says, “That’s backwards.”

Clint looks down. “Aw, shirt, no.” He tries to pull it off over his head, but manages to catch it around his elbows, fumbling with it for a few seconds before letting out a sad little noise and sagging a bit, arms caught in the fabric.

Bucky laughs and steps closer. “How do you manage on your own?” he asks, tugging the shirt off the rest of the way. He turns it right side out and offers it back to him.

Clint sighs. “No idea,” he says, and pulls it on right this time with minimal struggle. “Mornings suck.”

“They do,” Bucky agrees. “Tell you what. You finish getting ready, and I’ll go look for coffee.”

“Kiss me,” Clint demands, voice still sleepy. “You promised.”

Bucky smiles, then leans in and kisses his cheek. “There. One kiss.”

“Cheating,” Clint complains. “Real kiss.”

“Morning breath,” Bucky says. “Brush your teeth, pack your stuff. I’ll get you coffee.”

He walks a grumbling Clint into the bathroom, then grabs his room key and goes to see if there’s breakfast.

There is, if it can really be called breakfast. Nothing special, just some bagels, coffee, and a couple cereal options. Bucky fills two coffee cups, then grabs a couple bagels and takes it all back to the room.

Clint looks up from where he’s shoving things back in his bag. “Hey,” he says, sounding marginally more awake than he was ten minutes ago. “Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Bucky confirms, and offers him a cup. Clint takes it with one hand, then tugs him forward with the other and kisses him. It’s a sweet thing, soft, perfect for an early morning.

“Thank you,” Clint says when he pulls back. “For the coffee.” He kisses him again before adding “Sorry I’m rough. In the mornings.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky tells him. “As long as you’re awake for driving.”

“Will be.” He takes a long drink of his coffee. “Just gotta coffee it up.”

Bucky nods and packs his own bag, then drags the sheets back into some semblance of order. By the time he’s done, Clint looks mostly awake, and is working his way through one of the bagels.

“About last night,” Bucky says.

Clint pauses mid-bite, then lowers the bagel. “What about it?”

“Was it...okay?”

That gets him an impish grin. “You asking for reviews?” Bucky rolls his eyes, and he snickers. “Yeah, man. Ten out of ten. Gold star. It was great.”

“I meant are you okay that it happened,” Bucky says, shoving his shoulder. “I just—I like you, I don’t—”

“Bucky,” Clint says, smile turning into something more serious. “I’m glad it happened. I wanted it to happen.” He sips his coffee, then says, “I’m very on board with it happening again.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and a tension releases from him that he didn’t even know he was carrying. He doesn’t even know what he was worried about, honestly, but it’s just nice to know that Clint still wants him around. That it wasn’t a one time thing. “I’m...good. Yeah. Okay.”

Clint smiles slightly. “How was it for you?”

“You asking for a review?” Bucky asks, and Clint sticks his tongue out. Bucky laughs.“Yes, Clint. It was good. I’m glad it happened too.”

“Awesome,” Clint says, drinking the last of his coffee. “Because I’m serious about doing it again. That wasn’t—last night—I really—” He looks down at his empty cup and sighs. “Need more caffeine.”

Bucky hands him the other one and grabs the bags. “We should check out,” he says. “Come on.”

Clint looks down at the second cup, an odd expression on his face. He turns it slowly in his hand, staring at it long enough that Bucky starts to get concerned. Just when he’s about to ask, Clint surges forward and kisses Bucky, stepping into him with enough force to make them both stumble back a couple steps.

“What—” Bucky manages, dropping the bags in favor of keeping them both upright. “Clint—”

“You brought me two,” Clint says against his mouth, kissing him again. He’s still got a bagel in one hand, and the coffee in the other.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, a little confused. He’d just assumed Clint would want more, considering how much he drank yesterday, but maybe he was wrong—

“You brought two,” Clint says again, cutting off the thought. “You—” He rests his forehead against Bucky’s, visibly struggling for the words. “You _noticed_.”

“Hard to miss.” Bucky smiles. “You drink a lot of coffee.”

“I know that.” Clint pulls back slightly, then looks at the cup in his hand. “I just...thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky murmurs, going up on his toes to kiss his forehead. “Come on. We should go.”

Clint scowls, but it doesn’t seem directed at Bucky. It’s one of those self-annoyed expressions, like he gets when he’s working on an art piece that isn’t going well. Like he knows he can do better, but there’s something disconnected between him and his canvas.

“Later,” Bucky says, brushing the hair out of Clint’s face. “Whatever you’re trying to say, it can wait. Let the coffee kick in. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” Clint says, relaxing a little. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

Bucky scoops up the bags and follows Clint out into the hallway. The front desk guy isn’t there, but there’s a little basket for the keys, so he just drops them in there.

The sky is still cloudy, but it doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did the night before. Bucky tosses the bags in the back of the truck and gets in, pulling up the map on his phone. “Okay. We’ve got about eight and a half hours again.”

“Okay,” Clint says, starting the truck. “I think I’ve got enough Gremlin 47 to get us that far.”

“Don’t you dare.” Bucky points at him. “Anything else, _please_.”

Clint heaves a dramatic sigh, but hands Bucky the cord. “Fine. If you’re going to be picky about it.”

“You say picky, I say good taste.” Bucky hits shuffle. “Alright. Drive.”

Clint raises an eyebrow as some kind of soft instrumental spills through the air. “Uh—”

“Becca,” Bucky sighs, skipping to the next song as his face flushes. “She downloaded a whole bunch of those once; she needed music to listen to and her phone was dead, and we don’t have the same taste—”

Clint pulls the car forward. “And you just...kept them?”

“Well, she might need them again someday.” The car stops, and Bucky looks over to find Clint studying him with a contemplative expression. “What?”

“You’re a really good brother,” Clint says. “Doing that. Driving across the country to see her graduate. I just—“ He pauses, then says, “It’s just nice. That you love her so much.”

“She’s all I’ve got,” Bucky says. “I mean—my parents are fine—but you know how they can be.” Clint nods. “And after the...after what happened, they didn’t know how to handle it. Becca was the one who was there.” He swallows hard, pushing aside the memories of hospital visits and therapy and the long path to recovery. “Every day, she was there. She was a _kid_ , and she was there. So this is—this is the least I can do for her. I owe her _so_ much.”

Clint nods again. “I get it,” he says. “Becca’s awesome. I would’ve been happy to drive you no matter what.”

“I know.” Bucky takes a deep breath and peels his hand off the door handle. He hadn’t even realized it was there. “I’m glad you could do this.”

“And for the record,” Clint adds, stopping at another red light. “You’ve got me, too.”

Bucky glances at him. “What?”

“You said Becca’s all you’ve got.” Clint drums his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the light. “I’m just saying. That doesn’t have to be—if you want—” He takes a breath, forcibly stilling his fingers. “You can have me too.”

Bucky studies him, and the nervous twitching of his hands. He thinks about the way Clint had driven all day yesterday—slow, methodical, ever aware of Bucky’s reactions to things. He thinks about Clint in the art museum, all lit up over paintings and photographs and sculptures. He thinks about last night, and the way Clint responded to Bucky’s touch, to his words. The way Clint had _looked_ at him.

Bucky doesn’t know what this is, yet. What’s happening between them. There’s so many possibilities, so many potentials, like undeveloped film just waiting to be brought to life. But it feels _right_ —more right than anything else that’s happened to him in a long time. And he definitely doesn’t deserve it, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to let it go.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

That lopsided smile breaks over Clint’s face, and Bucky can see a faint blush creep up his neck. “Awesome,” he says. “That’s—yeah. Great.”

They grin at each other like a couple of idiots until the car behind them honks, and Bucky suddenly realizes the light’s green. “Go,” he says, pointing at it, and Clint drives forward. “Also, do you know where you’re going?”

“I do not,” Clint admits, and he pokes Bucky’s arm. “You should do something about that. Since you’re the navigator and all.”

Bucky puts in his parents’ address. “Alright. The interstate is north—”

“If you say northeast, I will make you walk the rest of the way,” Clint threatens. He tosses a sly look over then in a low voice says, “I need you to be _specific_.”

Bucky laughs. “Left at the light, follow the signs for I-80 West.”

“Much better,” Clint says, and turns left. “Alright. Day two, here we go!”

“Here we go,” Bucky echoes, and thinks to himself that there’s no one else in the world he’d rather be going with.

* * *

Things are decent for the first two hours—limited traffic, easy driving, good music. Bucky watches Clint tap his fingers and hum along to everything that comes up, a quiet kind of happiness settling over his face. He occasionally glances over at Bucky, and every time their eyes meet, he smiles to himself.

“What’re you so happy about?” Bucky finally asks.

“What’s not to be happy about?” Clint counters. “It’s a nice day, I slept with a hot guy last night, and I’m on my second coffee. Life is good.”

“Fair enough.” Bucky takes out his Polaroid and snaps a picture of him when he turns to look over his shoulder. It turns out better than he expected, really—the background’s a little blurry, but that just pulls focus towards the way the morning sunlight glitters in his hair.

Clint looks over at the sound. “See something you like?”

“Always,” Bucky says, taking another picture. “You’re pretty.”

Clint’s smile gets a little bigger, even as he blushes. “Ah.”

Bucky lowers the camera and reaches over, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. The whole thing is covered in paint splatters. He’d thought it was just from Clint being messy while painting, but the more he looks at it, the more he can see a kind of artful, pattern-not-pattern to it. “Did you do this yourself?”

“Kinda,” Clint says. “It used to be a white shirt, but then there was a, uh...paint incident.” He laughs. “Anyway, I just kind of went with it, and turned it into this. Made it look _purposeful_.”

“Do you decorate all your clothes or something?” Bucky asks, voice teasing. “Didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”

Clint shrugs. “Everything’s some kind of canvas.” He moves the car over a lane.

“Wow,” Bucky says. “That was sort of deep for only two cups of coffee.”

“Mmm.” Clint waves a hand. “I’m very smart. Are we taking this road the whole way there?”

“We are. Eight hours worth.”

“Gross.” He sips his coffee. “Wanna play a game?”

Bucky snorts. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” He thinks for a moment. “We used to play a bunch as kids, when we’d go visit our grandparents. Trying to remember what they were.”

“I know the license plate one.”

“That’s boring. Pick something with questions.”

Bucky sighs and picks up his phone. “Fine,” he says, trying a couple different searches before finally settling on a game he vaguely remembers playing in high school. “Never have I ever—”

“Oh damn,” Clint interrupts, an infectious grin flitting over his face. “Old school. I like it.”

Bucky pauses. “We can do something else. It just popped up when I was looking for road trip games.”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Clint waves a hand. “Carry on. I haven’t played this in forever.”

“Me neither,” Bucky admits. “I think I was a freshman? Like, high school freshman.”

“We played a couple times in bad boy school,” Clint says. “Then we got banned from playing, because it sort of merged with truth or dare, and then things got a little bit...out of hand.”

Bucky laughs. “Bad boy school?”

“You know,” Clint says, looking over at him. “The place my parents sent me? School for troubled kids?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Anyway. Things got wild, from time to time.” He grins. “One round was ‘never have I ever punched someone in the face,’ and that answer changed _real_ fast, if you get my drift.”

“There was punching?”

“So much punching. That was the game that got it banned, actually. It was a hell of a night.”

Bucky looks down at his phone. “Well, you’ll never believe what the first question is.”

Clint snickers. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Ha. The answer is yes. Many, many times.” His face gets serious for a moment, and he rubs a hand through his hair. “More than I should have, really.”

Bucky shrugs. “So have I.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

He hesitates, then says, “Steve.”

Clint casts him a surprised look. “You punched Steve?”

“There’s a reason we don’t talk much anymore.” Multiple reasons, but that’s really the biggest one. Bucky knows that between the two of them, _he’s_ the one that burned that bridge, and he’s the one that’s kept things that way between them.

“I thought it was because—”

“That’s what lead to it,” Bucky interrupts. “He was trying to be...he was being Steve, you know, and I just—I couldn’t take it anymore. So I punched him. Told him to leave me alone.” He still feels guilty about it, honestly. “I didn’t mean to. It just kind of happened. And we haven’t really talked since.”

“Huh.” Clint looks thoughtful. “Guess that would explain why he came home with a black eye that day. Always wondered how he got that.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t. Wouldn’t talk about it. Wouldn’t talk about anything for awhile there.”

Bucky grimaces. “It’s my fault.”

“No,” Clint says immediately. “It’s not—”

“It is.” Bucky shakes his head. “I shouldn’t—he didn’t deserve that. I don’t blame him. I never have, really. Not once the initial...” He waves a hand. “Once I got my head on straight. It was a freak accident. He was being careful, it was just black ice and a bridge and—”

He stops, because if he keeps going, he’s going to lose it. He doesn’t like to think about the accident at all, and especially not while he’s _in a car_ —

“Bucky,” Clint says, and Bucky suddenly realizes that his fists are clenched, and there’s a ringing in his ears, high-pitched and loud, and he can’t really breathe. The road in front of them flickers, hazily replaced by an ice-covered bridge and softly falling snow and the sensation of spinning out of control—

A hand settles on his leg. “Bucky,” Clint says again. “Buck, you gotta breathe. Please.”

“Driving,” Bucky chokes out, because Clint is supposed to be driving the car, not—

“I pulled over. We’re stopped. Can you—I don’t know—Bucky, you gotta breathe or something—“

Breathing. Right. He can do that. “Okay.”

“I don’t—can I help? Do you need me to do something?”

Bucky shakes his head. He slides his hand down to Clint’s, tangles their fingers together, and focuses on that. Narrows his perspective until there’s nothing in his mind except the gentle pressure of Clint’s hand in his. He counts their fingers, counts them over and over and over until the ache in his chest starts to subside, and breathing comes a little bit easier.

As the panic attack fades, the embarrassment starts to replace it, and he finds his face heating up. “Sorry,” he says, letting go of Clint’s hand. “I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

“What the hell for?”

“For...” He trails off, then gestures to himself. “Me. That. I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry for,” Clint says fiercely. “That’s not—why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t like people seeing that. Seeing me like that.”

“What, as a human?” Clint reaches down and takes his hand again. “I know I joke about you being a vampire, but you’re allowed to have feelings and stuff, you know.” He grimaces at his own words, which sends a trickle of amusement through Bucky. “I mean, I get what you’re saying. But it’s just you and me here. You don’t have to hide any of that.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “I...I know.”

“I’ve been there,” Clint says. “I know what it’s like. Sometimes things fuck you up. It’s not anything to be ashamed of.”

“It’s been _six_ years.” Bucky scowls. “I should be—I should be over this, you know?”

“So?” Clint taps his hearing aids. “Thirteen, give or take a few. I still have dreams where I can hear perfectly without them. Like I did when I was a kid. I remember what it was like. Then I wake up and I can’t, and it fucking sucks.”

His voice goes tight at that last bit, and Bucky glances over to see him blinking rapidly, his own eyes bright with tears.

“So I get it,” he continues. “I really do. And you sure as fuck don’t have to apologize for it.”

Bucky nods and glances around. They’re at a gas station, some little run-down place just off the highway. He must have been lost in his own head for longer than he remembers, because he doesn’t recall Clint pulling over at all.

Clint squeezes his hand. “I’m gonna run in real quick,” he says. “Stretch my legs, grab a coffee. You want anything?”

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m just—I need a minute. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah.” Clint looks at him for a second, then leans over and kisses him, quick and easy.

Bucky smiles. “What was that for?”

“I told you,” Clint says, smiling back. “You got me too.”

He gets out of the truck and walks inside the station. Bucky watches him go, then picks up his Polaroid and gets out as well, taking a couple pictures of the run-down station. He feels the tension bleed from him with every press of the shutter, every picture that rolls out of the camera. It’s not as soothing as developing his own pictures, but it’s familiar, and comforting, and by the time Clint comes back out, he feels like he’s got most of his pieces back together.

“Got you a present,” Clint says, waving a bag of kettle corn. “You like this stuff, right?” He hands it to Bucky. “I remember you saying that once.”

Bucky takes it from him. “I do,” he says, trying to remember when he’d ever mentioned that to Clint. “Caramel’s my favor—”

Clint tosses him a second bag. “Merry Christmas.”

Bucky catches it. “You—thanks, but you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” Clint shrugs. “When I have—when that happens to me, I want something afterwards.” He points at the bag. “No breakfast burritos here, but I figured this would make a close second. Comfort food or whatever, you know.”

Bucky shifts the bag more securely in his hands, feeling a warmth spread through him, even as something about Clint’s words nags at him. “Well. Thank you. I—I appreciate it.”

“Happy to,” Clint says.

They get back in the car, and pull back onto the highway. It’s not until they’re almost ten minutes down the road when the puzzle pieces finally click into place.

“Hey,” he says. “Breakfast burritos.”

Clint looks over. “What about them?”

“You said—you said ‘when that happens to me, I want something afterwards.’ And then you said breakfast burritos.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky turns to face him a little more. “Did you have one of those dreams before we left?”

Clint’s face tightens a little bit, mouth going thin. Then he nods.

“Sorry,” Bucky says.

“Happens.” Clint pokes at his lip ring, then taps his fingers on the wheel. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Still sucks.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a long while after that. Bucky doesn’t know what to say, and Clint doesn’t offer anything else. He just stares at the road, hands fixed firmly on the wheel, muscles tense.

Finally, Bucky says, “If you want to talk about it—”

“Really don’t,” Clint interrupts, and his fingers tighten even more, the knuckles going white.

Bucky bites his lip. “Okay.”

After a few minutes, Clint lets out a long breath. “Sorry,” he says. “I just—”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for either,” Bucky tells him. “It’s like you said. Sometimes things fuck you up.” He pauses, then adds, “But if you ever want to at any point, well...you’ve got _me_ , too. If you need.”

A slight smile pulls at Clint’s mouth. “Thanks,” he says, and his hands loosen on the wheel a bit, muscles relaxing.

Bucky studies the Kandinsky on his arm. It’s appropriately named, he thinks, eyes drifting over the bright colors and firm lines that dance their way over his skin. _Delicate Tension_. Something perfectly balanced and utterly fragile, held together by only a few lines.

Kind of like whatever is happening between them.

Clint shifts a little in his seat, then points at the car in front of them. “Alaska,” he says, sounding surprised, and Bucky looks at the license plate.

“They’re a long way from home,” he says.

Clint nods. “Aren’t we all,” he says, and Bucky doesn’t really have a good response for that one.

* * *

They stop just outside of Chicago for lunch, mostly because Clint starts talking about cheese fries, and won’t shut up until Bucky finds them a Portillo’s. It’s crowded, but they manage to snag a table in the back, and Bucky watches in a mix of interest and slight horror as Clint mows his way through a mountain of fries.

“It’s just cheese sauce,” he says after a while. “I don’t get it.”

“How dare you,” Clint says, sounding scandalized. “It’s utter heaven.”

“But they’re not—”

“Not another word.” Clint points a fry at him. “One more insult about cheese fries, and we’ll be listening to Gremlin 47 for the next four hours.”

Bucky closes his mouth and reaches for his cake shake.

“That’s what I thought,” Clint says, smugly satisfied, and he dips another one, eating it with delight. “God, I love these things.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Bucky sighs.

Clint flicks a fry at him. “You like me anyway.”

God help him, he does.

* * *

Bucky calls Becca when they’re about thirty minutes away. “Hey,” he says when she picks up. “Half an hour or so.”

“Awesome,” she says. “Mom and Dad went out to the store, so it’s a toss-up if they’ll be here when you get back.” She laughs. “They’re getting me a cake, apparently.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Dad said something about it. I don’t know what Mom’s thoughts are. Or if they’ll actually get one.” She sighs. “Anyway. Can’t wait to see you!”

“Almost there,” Bucky says. “Can’t wait to see you either.”

They hang up, and he reconnects his phone to the car, unable to stop himself from smiling.

“When’s the last time you saw her?” Clint asks. “Becca.” He frowns. “When’s the last time _I_ saw her?”

“She came out for Christmas, but I think you went to Portland for that.”

“I did. Steve wanted to introduce me to his boyfriend.”

“Who?”

“Tony something. I don’t remember his last name.” He checks over his shoulder, then moves around another car. “Anyway. I don’t think I’ve seen Becca since I left for school.”

“She’ll be glad to see you,” Bucky tells him. “She asks about you sometimes.”

“Cool.”

The landscape around them slowly transforms into familiarity, fields and trees giving way to the outline of downtown Waverly. It looks the same as it always does—tired, fading brick buildings that line Main Street, and tired, fading people walking past them. There’s always a sense of melancholy to Waverly, like a vague cloud of depression settled over the city a hundred years ago and just never left. It’s why Bucky left the moment he could manage it, fleeing almost eleven-hundred miles to a place where he could be _alive_ , instead of just existing.

“That’s new,” Clint murmurs, pointing at a coffee shop. “I think.”

“Can’t tell,” Bucky says, watching it go by. “Probably, though. I heard the other one closed.”

“Mmm.” Clint sighs. “I’ll have to check it out. We go right up here, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They weave their way through the suburban streets, Bucky fighting back growing apprehension with every single turn. Maybe he should have called them, then at least he would know their reaction—

Clint pokes his leg. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s only a few days, we’re not moving you back forever.”

“God forbid,” Bucky says, shuddering. “I know that. I just...I hate coming here.”

“I know.” Clint squeezes his hand. “It’ll be fine. If things get awkward, I’ll just charmingly deflect them. I’m good at that.” He grins.

“You are,” Bucky agrees.

They park on the street. Bucky’s barely made it out of the car when the front door opens and Becca comes flying out, jumping into his arms with a delighted yell. “You’re here!”

He barely catches her, stumbling back a couple steps before he gets his feet. “I’m here,” he says, wrapping his arms around her. “Hi, you.”

“Hi,” she says, burying her face in his neck and clinging onto him. “Oh god, I’m so happy to see you.”

“You too.” Bucky pats her back. “You look beautiful.”

She slides out of his arms and kisses his cheek, offering him a sweet smile. “Drive okay?”

“Drive was fine,” he says. “I had a good companion.” He nods at Clint, who waves awkwardly and sticks out his hand. Becca ignores it and pulls him into a hug as well, murmuring something in his ear. Bucky can’t tell what it is, but Clint blushes and hugs her back, patting her shoulder.

“Mom and Dad are still out,” she says. “Mom said something about going to see a movie, now.”

“Wow.” Bucky shakes his head. “Classic.”

“I don’t care. Just means I get you to myself for a bit.” She smiles at him, beautiful as always. “Come on in. I got your room set up for you, and I thought Clint could sleep in the basement, maybe?”

Bucky grabs the bags. “Did they end up finishing it, then?”

“Yeah, a couple months ago. I sent you pictures.”

“Oh, right.”

Clint pats the truck. “Am I good here?”

“You’re fine,” she says, and waves them both inside. Bucky follows her into the house, dropping his jacket on the banister and kicking off his shoes behind the door.

Clint trails after him, doing the same. “Wow,” he says, glancing around. “This hasn’t changed at all.”

It really hasn’t. There’s a few new pictures, and the curtains are updated, but otherwise, it’s still the same 1970s time capsule it always has been. Bucky looks around at the carpet, and the wood paneling, and the giant brick fireplace, and the wooden beams on the ceiling, and he doesn’t feel at home at all. He just feels that pull to leave, to get out, to disappear before this place consumes him like it’s consumed so many other people.

Becca shows Clint to the basement, and Bucky takes his bag upstairs to his room. This hasn’t changed either, although he hadn’t really expected anything to. There’s not much in here, anyway. A bed, a dresser, a nightstand. He’d cleaned out almost everything before moving to college, only taking what would fit in the car. Most of it was childish crap anyway, and Bucky’s never been the sentimental type.

He dumps his bag on the bed and goes back downstairs. Clint’s in the kitchen with Becca, taking a water out of the fridge. “Basement’s nice,” he says to Bucky. “Much better than last I saw it.”

“Mmm.” Bucky looks at the god-awful yellow cabinets and shudders. “I thought they were going to re-do this?”

“Dad wanted his entertainment center downstairs,” Becca says. “I bought your favorite yogurts, by the way.”

“You’re the best.” He grabs one and opens it, leaning against the wall. “So did they change their minds about tomorrow?”

Becca’s face falls a bit. “No. Mom said she’ll bring home something for dinner, but they’re not going. They’ve got some meeting instead. Some town council thing. I don’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Clint says, patting her arm. “We’ll be there. We’ll cheer real loud and make everyone else jealous.”

Becca smiles at him. “Thanks,” she says. “You’re so sweet.” She touches his hair, ruffling it back. “When did this happen?”

Clint grins. “Right before I started school. Got bored with regular hair. You like?”

“It’s something,” she says. “Very…punk rock. I’d say it goes with the tattoos, but it really doesn’t.” Her eyes skim down his arm, and then light up. “Is that a _Gremlin_ tattoo?”

“Hell yeah,” Clint says, raising his wrist. “You a fan?”

“Of course! Who isn’t?” She’s beaming at him, an excited look lighting her up. “Oh man, I got the DJ to play _Gremlin Trials_ at prom and everyone just lost it, it was so amazing—”

“Spare me,” Bucky groans, tossing the empty yogurt in the trash. “I don’t _get_ it—”

“Because you have no taste in music,” she says, poking his chest. “I’ve seen your playlists.”

“Spare me,” he says again, and then he hears the sound of the garage door. “Hey. Showtime.”

Clint gets up. “Bathroom,” he says, and Becca points him down the hallway. Bucky takes a deep breath, then steps out into the living room, leaning against the wall.

“Don’t yell at them.” Becca puts a hand on his arm. “Please.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He wants to, desperately. Wants to scream at them until they come to their senses. He doesn’t understand how two otherwise competent people can be so fucking clueless half the time. “I promise.”

Becca nods, and the door opens. His mother steps in first, half-turned around as she’s talking to his father. “I don’t know,” she says. “We can always call the neighborhood watch if it’s still there in the morning, honestly I don’t know what—”

“Mom!” Becca says.

She holds up a hand. “Just a moment, dear. I mean, really, you’d think they’d at least make an effort to park closer to the curb—”

“Ma,” Bucky says, and _that_ gets her attention. She whips around, eyes going wide, and a smile spreading across her face.

“James!” she squeals, and Bucky has enough time to brace before she comes hurrying over and smothers him in a hug. “Oh, darling, I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Surprise,” he says, awkwardly patting her back. “I told you I’d be here for graduation.”

“I know, but I didn’t—“

“James,” his father says, stepping through the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I said I was coming,” Bucky says again, extracting himself from his mother’s arms.

“How did you afford the plane tickets?”

“Didn’t.” Bucky points at Clint, coming back down the hallway. “He drove me.”

Their reaction is nothing short of fucking hilarious. Bucky has no idea when they last saw Clint, but he’s betting it was long before the tattoos and piercings and blond mohawk happened. His mother’s eyes just about bug out of her head as she takes him in, eyes raking all over his body as he smiles at her. “Hey, Mrs. Barnes,” he says, offering her a hand. “Clint Barton. You remember me?”

“Clint,” she says faintly, taking his hand like it’s a live grenade. “Oh. This is...this is a surprise.”

Bucky catches Becca’s eye, then looks away before he starts laughing. Clint, to his credit, takes the response in stride. “Good to see you again,” he says, shaking her hand. “You look lovely, as always. Mr. Barnes, can I give you a hand with those bags?”

Bucky’s father looks down at the grocery bags in his arms, like he’s surprised they’re there still. “Oh. No son, that’s alright.” He hustles into the kitchen, and Bucky does his best to keep a straight face.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” his mother says, pulling his attention back. “Oh lamb, you’re so skinny, have you been eating?”

“I’m fine, Ma,” Bucky says, pulling out of her grasp. “I’m _fine_. Nice to see you too.”

She turns and studies Clint again, her mouth opening and closing a few times. “Clint,” she finally says. “It’s...it’s certainly been awhile.”

“Sure has,” Clint says easily, that sunshine smile brilliant over his face. “Steve sold the house, so I haven’t been back in awhile.”

She latches onto that. “Oh, Steve! How is he? I haven’t heard from him in so long.”

“He’s great,” Clint says. “He’s in Portland, designing houses for rich people. He loves it.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” She looks him over again, the uncomfortable look returning to her face. “I assume that’s your truck outside?”

“Do I need to move it? I just didn’t want to block the driveway or anything so I left it on the street.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys. “Easy to fix, just tell me where.”

His mother shakes her head. “Oh no, dear. It’s alright where it is.” She chuckles awkwardly, then turns to Bucky. “I can’t believe you _drove_ here, sweetheart, weren’t you—”

“It was fine,” Bucky interrupts. “Clint was great. Very safe.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“It was _fine_ ,” Bucky says again, a little more firmly. “We had a great time.”

“We stopped for Portillo’s,” Clint says, leaning against the fireplace.

Becca turns to him. “Cheese fries?”

“Cheese fries,” he confirms wistfully.

“I’m so jealous.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Do not understand,” he mutters, and Becca slugs his shoulder. “Anyway.”

His mother nods. “Well, I’m glad you could make it,” she says, casting her eyes over Clint again. “Thank you for driving him.”

“Happy to,” Clint says.

“I suppose you’ll need a place to stay. I think—”

“I set him up in the basement,” Becca says. “It’s taken care of.”

“Oh.” She turns back to Bucky. “How long are you staying?”

“Couple days.”

“Wonderful.” She puts a hand on his face. “Maybe I could take a look at your hair, darling, it’s getting _so_ long—”

Bucky pulls away from her. “I like it,” he says, stepping away and twisting it up into a bun. “It’s fine.”

“I think you look great,” Becca tells him, and he smiles at her, grateful. “I think you should let me braid it.”

“Sure,” he says, dropping his arms. “Is it long enough for that?”

“I’ll make it work.” She pulls him over to the couch. “Come here. Come sit.”

Bucky obediently settles himself on the floor. Clint sprawls on the couch next to Becca, leaving his mother standing alone by the fireplace. She shifts a little bit, looking unsure, then disappears into the kitchen.

“That went well,” Becca murmurs.

“Better than I thought.” Bucky tilts his head back into her hands, taking the hair tie when she hands it to him. “Clint though, holy shit, I thought she was gonna lose it—”

Clint snickers. “In her defense,” he says, “last time she saw me, I had regular hair and a lot less ink. I’d be a little surprised too.”

In the kitchen, there’s a clattering of cabinets, and then his father’s voice rises just loud enough to be heard. “—like a juvenile delinquent with all of those tattoos, I swear—”

“George!” his mother hisses.

“I mean it, Winnifred. It’s a shame what happened to his parents, because—”

Bucky pulls free of Becca and turns to look at Clint, who’s staring straight ahead at the far wall, face utterly blank. Without thinking, he reaches out and takes Clint’s hand. “Hey,” he says. “They’re just—just ignore them, okay? They’re just idiots.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, closing his eyes a moment. “I know.”

Becca looks at their hands, and a slight smile tugs at her mouth. She raises her eyebrows at Bucky, who shrugs in response. “Face forward,” she says, the smile getting wider, and Bucky reluctantly lets go. She leans forward to take the hair tie, murmuring, “I approve,” in his ear.

“Thank you,” he murmurs back, squeezing her leg.

He pulls his hand away from Clint just in time for his mother to poke her head back into the room. “I suppose we’ll just order pizza for dinner,” she says, flicking her eyes over the three of them. “Clint, you like pizza, right?”

“I love pizza,” Clint says, the charm suddenly back in his voice. “Any and all kinds. Thank you.”

“Okay,” she says, and disappears back into the kitchen.

“This is gonna be a long weekend,” Bucky mutters, rubbing his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Becca says. “But we’ll get through it. And at least you get to leave, after.”

“We’ll kidnap you,” Clint tells her. “Spend the summer in New York with us. You’ll love it.”

“I’m in,” Becca says, and Bucky smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> All artwork by [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why do you care?” He winces. “That came out wrong. I mean, why did you take the time to do that, when we weren’t—” he gestures between them “—a thing?”
> 
> Clint smiles slightly. “You’re important to me,” he says. “And you have been for a long time. And even if we were never gonna be a thing, I wanted to know because I’ve never seen you look so happy about anything your whole fucking life. I didn’t get it, at first, so I looked it up. Now I do.”

Dinner is awkward. Not that Bucky expected anything less, but it’s awkward, and he hates every second of it. Mostly because his father opens with, “So. James. Still taking all those pictures?”

“I’m a photography major, Dad,” Bucky says, gritting his teeth. “So yeah. Still taking pictures.”

“Leave him alone,” his mother says, shaking a finger at his father. “It’s good for him to have a hobby.”

Bucky tries not to scream. “Hobby. Right.”

“And what about you, Clint? What are you studying?”

“Fine arts,” Clint says, taking what’s got to be his fifth slice of pizza. Bucky raises his eyebrows, and Clint makes a face at him before adding, “Painting and such, you know.”

His father looks skeptical. “And what are you intending on doing with that?”

“Anything I want,” Clint says. “It’s the same degree Steve got, and he seems to be doing pretty well. So I think I’ll be okay.”

His father is speechless for a moment, and Bucky fights back the urge to cheer. Clint flashes him a quick smile and turns to Becca. “So. You applied to any places yet?”

Becca starts talking about colleges, and that cinches the rest of the dinner conversation. Bucky settles into his seat and makes a mental note to thank Clint later, because that was smooth as hell.

His mother tries to make some plans to watch a movie, but Clint easily deflects that too, making an excuse about showering and going to bed. Bucky immediately agrees, and she deflates a little, but nods and gestures towards the stairs. “Let me know if you need anything,” she says. “Either of you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Barnes,” Clint says, and disappears into the basement.

Bucky watches him go, then turns to his mother. “Hey,” he says, and she looks at him. “We heard you, earlier. In the kitchen.” Her eyes go wide. “Don’t you _ever_ talk about his parents again.”

“Oh, sweetie—”

“I’m serious,” he says, pulling his arm away from her. “Don’t.”

“We didn’t mean—”

“I don’t give a damn what you _meant_ ,” he hisses. “I’m telling you right now, I don’t want to hear you or Dad mention them again. Got it?”

“I...” she starts, looking shocked. “I’m so sorry, honey. Of course we won’t. I’m sure it’s still a—”

“You’d better fucking not,” Bucky says, and brushes past her to go upstairs before he gets any more pissed off. Last thing he needs right now is a yelling match, and he’d promised Becca he’d keep it together.

He showers and gets ready for bed, vanishing into his room before he can run into his parents again. Becca pokes her head in to say goodnight. “Ceremony’s at eleven,” she says, toweling off her wet hair. “But I have to be there at nine. Can you and Clint drive me?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “I’ll text him.”

“Thanks. Hey, how long have you two—”

“We’re not,” he interrupts, something in his stomach tightening at the thought. “We—I don’t know yet. What we are. If we’re anything at all.”

She considers for a moment. “Do you want to be something?”

Bucky nods.

“Then you should say that. To him, not to me.”

“We sort of did,” he says. “This morning. But he’s...” He sighs. “I don’t know. We should probably talk more.”

“Well,” she says, leaning her head against the door. “For the record, Dad installed some acoustic panels in the basement, because Mom kept complaining about the noise from the TV.” The smile turns knowing. “You know. Just in case you want to talk to him tonight. It’s good, in terms of soundproofing. You gotta get pretty loud.”

“I’m not gonna ask how you know that.”

“Probably for the best,” she agrees, and winks at him. “Anyway. Leaving here at eight-thirty, okay?”

“Okay. Night, Becks.”

“Night, Starbucks.”

“Don’t call me—”

She laughs and disappears out the door. Bucky makes a face after her, then picks up his phone and texts Clint.

**BB:** Leaving at 8:30 to take Becca to the ceremony. Doesn’t start til 11 but she’s gotta be there at 9.

 **CB:** can do

 **CB:** you have coffee, right?

 **BB:** parents don’t drink it

 **CB:** :( 

**BB:** we can get some from that new place after dropping her off.

 **CB:** :)

Bucky grins and plugs his phone in to charge. It’s not super late, but he is tired, and he could stand to sleep a little. It’s been a long day. He pulls the cover up over his shoulders, then rolls over, closing his eyes.

Two hours later, he’s still not asleep.

“Fuck,” he finally sighs, flipping onto his back. It’s almost midnight, which means it’s one in New York. He should be dead to the world, and he has no idea why he’s not. Maybe because he’s not in his own bed, but that didn’t matter last night—

_Because you got laid last night, moron._

Well. That’s fair.

He stares into the darkness, trying not to think about it because he really should be sleeping, not remembering what it was like to fuck Clint into the mattress, or the sounds he’d made, or the way he’d arched into Bucky’s touch—

“Goddammit,” he sighs. _You are in your parents’ house, you cannot go fuck your maybe/maybe-not boyfriend because you can’t sleep, what is wrong with you?_

Then again, Becca _had_ mentioned soundproofing—

Bucky’s phone buzzes, and he rolls over to pick it up, cringing as the light of a thousand suns brightens up his room. He manages to dim it to tolerable levels, then squints at the screen.

**CB:** you awake?

Bucky stares at the single text for a minute, mind flipping through a thousand possibilities.

Then he gets out of bed, eases his door open, and goes down the stairs, making sure to skip the creaky ones. He feels vaguely like a teenager again, like he’s sneaking out to meet Steve somewhere. They didn’t go out late often, but it was enough that he’d had a whole routine for it.

He awkwardly drags his hand along the wall until he finds the basement door, then opens it just enough to slip inside before closing it behind him. “It’s me,” he says, feeling stupid as soon as he does. Who the fuck else would it be?

A low chuckle comes from the bottom of the stairs. “I kinda guessed that, yeah.”

“Shut up.” He feels his way down the stairs, trying to remember how many there are. Last thing he needs is to fall down the stairs and hurt himself.

He makes it down without incident, then stands there, one hand on the railing. The basement is dark as hell, other than the sharp pinpricks of light coming from whatever’s plugged in on the far wall. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Couch,” Clint says. “Hang on, lemme get my phone—”

A light blooms in the darkness, bathing Clint’s face in a dim glow. He winces and turns it away from himself, casting a weak spotlight on the floor. Bucky carefully feels his way across the room. “Watch out for the rug.”

“What rug?” Bucky asks, two seconds before his foot catches it. He pitches forward, hands flying out, and just barely manages to avoid hitting Clint’s head as he face-plants right on top of him.

“ _That_ rug,” Clint wheezes, grunting as Bucky slams into him. “Ow.”

“Oh fuck,” Bucky says immediately, embarrassment burning through him. “Shit, are you okay? Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Clint laughs. “S’all good,” he assures Bucky, patting his back. “Get off, though, my phone’s in my ribs—“

Bucky scrambles to push himself up, and Clint moves his phone to the floor. “There,” he says. “Much better, thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, you just surprised me.” He wriggles a little bit, then says, “I thought vampires could see in the dark.”

Bucky slides his hand under Clint’s shirt and pinches him. “Stop calling me a vampire.”

Clint shrieks at the pinch, one hand flying up to cover his mouth. Except the phone light fades right at that moment, and he instead manages to whack Bucky in the side of the head.

“Ow, Jesus!”

“Oh my god I’m so sorry—” Clint frantically pats at him. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky says, eyes watering. “Is there—fuck, is there a lamp or something?”

“No,” Clint says. “I was using my phone as a flashlight, hang on—”

He leans over to grab his phone again, and the twisting moment dislodges Bucky, sending him tipping to the ground. “ _Fuck_ —”

“Oh my god,” Clint says, and then he starts laughing.

Bucky blinks up at the ceiling, a little dazed, one hand still half-twisted up inside Clint’s shirt. “What just happened?”

“I’m not really sure,” Clint says between giggles. “But it was fucking hilarious.”

Bucky extracts his hand and carefully sits up, picking up Clint’s phone from the floor. “Breathe,” he tells Clint, unable to hold back his own grin. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Clint manages, gasping in a breath. “Are you?”

Bucky reaches up and pats around until he grabs Clint’s hand, then puts the phone into it. “Light,” he says. “Now.”

Clint turns the flashlight on and holds it up, illuminating both of them. “There. Okay.” He looks down at Bucky, the smile on his face brighter than any light. “That was fun.”

“That was something,” Bucky says, shifting up to his knees and rubbing his right shoulder where it hit the floor.

“I think it’s cute how hard you fell for me,” Clint says, and Bucky punches him in the arm. “Ow!”

“I didn’t come down here for your shitty jokes,” Bucky tells him.

Clint tilts his head, the smile slowly turning into a smirk. “Yeah?” He sits up, shifting so that Bucky’s kneeling at his feet. “So what _did_ you come down here for?”

“Well,” Bucky says, putting his hands on Clint’s knees. He pushes them a little wider, grinning at the sharp intake of breath. “I figured we could either have a rousing debate on global warming—”

Clint snorts. “What the fuck?”

“Or we could have a repeat of last night,” Bucky says. “Except on a shitty couch instead of a nice big bed.”

“ _You_ have a bed.”

“I’m not fucking you thirty feet away from my parents. Also, basement’s soundproofed.”

Clint tilts his head. “Really?”

“Really.”

“How do you know?”

“Becca told me.”

“What, just like randomly?” Clint snickers. “Is that a conversation that comes up a lot between you two? Because I gotta tell you, that’s a little weird—”

Bucky laughs. “She asked if we were a thing, and I said I didn’t know, and she said if I wanted to come down here and talk to you, the basement was soundproof.” He taps a finger, then adds, “The rest was implied.”

Clint sets the phone on the other couch cushion, flashlight face-up. It creates an eerie glow, casting shadows over his face. “You don’t know if we’re a thing?”

Bucky pauses, hands halfway up Clint’s thighs. “Are we?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I don’t know.”

“I told you this morning—”

“No, this morning you said you were okay with last night, and you wanted to do it again. That’s not the same as us being a thing.”

Clint sighs. “Okay,” he says. “That’s...that’s fair.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. That one’s on me.”

Bucky studies his face, the way the light glints off his hair, and the way the shadows dance over his arms, making the tattoos look alive. “Do you want to be a thing?”

“Of course I want to be a thing.” Clint leans forward, an excited look on his face. “Dude, I’ve had a crush on your ass since like...forever.”

Bucky smirks. “Just my ass?”

Clint sticks out his tongue, the piercing catching the light. “Shut up,” he says. “Your ass, your face, your whole vampire body. Yes, I want us to be a thing. I’ve wanted us to be a thing for years.”

He reaches out, brushing Bucky’s hair out of his face with careful fingers, and that simple gesture makes Bucky’s breath catch in his throat, emotion swelling in him.

“I like you,” Clint says softly. “You’re smart, and you’re funny, and you have shit taste in music, but you take amazing pictures. You’ve been through hell and back and you have every right to be a raging asshole at the world, but you’re mostly not, and I think that’s incredible.”

“Mostly,” Bucky echoes, not sure if he wants to laugh or start crying.

“Well,” Clint says. “You’re kind of a broody bastard. But so am I, so...” He ruffles his hair. “Yeah, I like you. If I keep listing all the reasons, we’re gonna be here forever. But I like you so fucking much, and I really, _really_ want us to be a thing.”

He looks down at Bucky, a delighted smile suddenly breaking over his face. “There. Was that _specific_ enough for you?”

Bucky snorts out a laugh, tipping forward to rest his head on Clint’s knee. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “That’ll work just fine.”

“Awesome,” Clint says. “You gonna get up here and kiss me now?”

Bucky doesn’t really have the words to answer that so he just does it, straightening up and leaning forward. Clint’s hands slide around his back, tugging him up and closer, scooting forward until they’re pressed against each other. Bucky tries to make the kiss an assurance, a declaration, tries to put into it all the things that he can’t say, all the things he’s feeling. And Clint must understand, because he clings to Bucky like a promise, solid and strong.

“I want you,” Clint finally gasps into his mouth. “Fuck, I want—Bucky, _please_ —” 

“I’m here,” Bucky says back. “I’m here, let me—” He breaks it long enough to tug Clint’s shirt off over his head, then kisses him again, all the more desperate for that brief moment of separation. His fingers fumble at Clint’s pants, trying to work them open. “Why are you still _wearing_ these—”

“Normally sleep naked,” Clint says breathlessly, knocking his hands aside to do it himself. “Don’t have underwear; didn’t want to freak out your parents if they came down—”

Bucky laughs. “Naked? Really?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, shoving his pants down to his knees. “More comfortable—Jesus _fuck_ —” He cuts off as Bucky tugs him forward, wrapping a hand around his dick before taking it into his mouth. “What—okay—”

“Problem?” Bucky asks, laving his tongue along the underside.

“No problem, nope, not at all, holy shit, keep doing that—” Clint keeps babbling, and Bucky doesn’t let up for a second, sucking his cock like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—which might be true in this moment, he’s not really sure.

Clint’s hand winds into his hair, gently tugging on it, and Bucky moans around him. Part of him wants to take it slow and tease Clint, because he wants to hear how Clint sounds when he’s begging to come, but he’s also a little desperate himself, and he’d really rather take the time to do that when he’s not in his parents’ basement. So he just keeps going, movements steady and rhythmic, keeping a close eye on Clint’s every breath, every muttered word, every time his hand tightens in Bucky’s hair, watching for that pivotal moment—

“I’m gonna—” Clint chokes out, and Bucky stops, wrapping a firm hand around his cock, tightening just enough to keep him from coming. Clint’s head thuds against the back of the couch in frustration. “Oh, you _asshole_ —”

“Wanna fuck you,” Bucky says, sliding a hand up his thigh. “That okay?”

“Hnngh,” Clint says, which isn’t really an answer, so Bucky just waits patiently, watching as he tries to pull himself together enough to say actual things. Finally, he picks his head up off the couch and glares down at Bucky. “What, you waiting for a written invitation?”

“Waiting for a yes,” Bucky says sweetly, resting his chin on Clint’s leg. “Consent is important.”

“Yes,” Clint blurts out, trying to thrust up into his hand, and Bucky suddenly finds himself reevaluating the whole making-him-wait thing, because watching Clint writhe like this is really fucking hot. “Please, Bucky, do something—”

“Mmm,” Bucky says, noncommittal. “Still got stuff in your bag?”

Clint makes a vague gesture to the other side of the couch, and Bucky sees the outline of it at the edge of the light. He turns back to Clint and takes his hands, pressing them into the couch cushions. “Don’t move ‘em,” he says, and Clint growls in frustration. “I mean it.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” he mutters petulantly, but he doesn’t move, so Bucky reaches over to the bag and digs around in it, finally coming up with a condom and the bottle of lube.

“We’ll see,” is all he says in response, tugging Clint’s pants off the rest of the way.

“Hnngh,” Clint says again, lifting his legs to help. “Couch is too small.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “We’ll make it work. Turn around.”

Clint moves, positioning himself so his knees are on the cushions, and he’s holding onto the back of it. “Okay?”

“Perfect,” Bucky says, and leans forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the base of his spine. Clint makes a slight noise and buries his head in the couch with a muffled expletive as Bucky nudges his legs wider.

“Easy,” Bucky says, rubbing around Clint’s hole with his metal thumb, pleased at the noise that elicits. “Kinda wanna get my tongue in you. That okay?”

“God, _yes_.”

Bucky hums in acknowledgement and leans forward. The first touch of his mouth makes Clint jump, his whole body a live wire under Bucky’s hands. “Easy,” Bucky murmurs again. “I got you.”

“Fuck,” Clint whimpers, fingers clenching on the fabric, lifting his head a bit. “Oh god, you’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?”

“Just a little,” Bucky says, tracing his tongue over the same path his finger took, just teasing around the rim. “You’ll like it. Hold still.”

Clint breathes out either a curse or a prayer and drops his head down, and Bucky starts to take him apart piece by piece. He doesn’t care anymore that he’s in his parents’ basement; Clint looks so goddamn good like this that Bucky’s pretty sure a fucking marching band could come through here and he wouldn’t stop. He’s too entranced by the sounds Clint is making, by the way he’s pushing back onto Bucky’s tongue, the little slight movements as he desperately tries to hold himself still. Bucky takes his time, licking into him with long, slow movements, pressing deeper and then pulling back to flick around the rim when Clint seems like he might be getting too close to the edge.

Clint’s hole is wet and sloppy by the time Bucky pulls back, kissing the curve of his ass before sliding a lubed-up metal finger into him, just shallow enough to make him whine. “Doing really good for me,” he says, and Clint makes a choked-out whimpering sound. “You okay?”

“Mmmph,” Clint mumbles into the couch.

Bucky chuckles and climbs up next to him, keeping his finger moving. “That wasn’t an answer either,” he says, gently turning Clint’s head to the side. “Use your words, babe.”

“S’great,” Clint slurs, and even by the crappy phone flashlight, Bucky can see the shine of tears in his eyes. “So great, Bucky, please—”

Bucky slides a second finger in, watching with amusement as Clint bucks and pushes back into his hand, trying to force Bucky into the right angle. “No,” he says, pulling his fingers out a bit, and Clint blinks in confusion. “I’m taking my time. I like you like this.”

“Why?” Clint whines. “Bucky, come on—”

“In a minute,” Bucky says, utterly captivated by the curve of Clint’s back, and the way the dim light casts an otherworldly glow over his skin. “I’m looking at you.”

“You said— _fuck_ —that you could— _oh god, Bucky_ —multitask—”

“I can.” He trails heated kisses down Clint’s spine, keeping his fingers moving all the while. “And I am.”

“Ugh,” Clint growls, rocking back into his hand, movements getting sharp and desperate. “I just want—I need—”

“What do you need?” Bucky asks, coming back up to his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“Fuck me,” Clint gasps, one hand dropping down between them. He palms over Bucky’s dick, still in his pants. “I want you to fuck me, please, wanna come on your dick—” He cuts off as Bucky slides in a third finger, shoving his face in the cushion as he mutters something about _gotta be specific_.

Bucky grins and gets off the couch, still keeping his fingers in Clint, fucking him slowly while he shoves his pants down and fumbles the condom on with the other hand. He thinks about last night, and how Clint had come first, then begged him to keep going, to roll him over and fuck him into the bed.

“If you come before I’m done,” he says conversationally, “do you want me to stop, or do like we did last night?”

Clint mumbles something, and Bucky reaches forward with his right hand, tangling it in his hair and tugging sharply. “Couldn’t hear that, honey.”

“Yes,” Clint whines, shoving back into his fingers again. “Yes, keep going, I like it, I want that, please fuck me—“

“You’re not very good at this whole ‘hold still’ thing, are you?” Bucky asks, sliding his fingers out.

Clint shudders, his whole body shaking with it, and shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says, slicking himself up, pausing for a moment to breathe. “It’s hot. I like watching it.” He presses in, slow and steady, trying to keep talking through the mess of sensations blaring through him. “You look so fucking good like this, wish you could see it.”

“Should take—take a picture,” Clint says, voice shaking as much as the rest of him.

Bucky keeps pressing forward until his hips are against Clint, then leans over him, bracing a hand on the back of the couch. “You want me to?”

“Someday,” Clint says, moving to wrap his hand around Bucky’s. “Could—fuck—could be hot.”

Bucky thinks suddenly of the shibari photoshoot he’d once helped a friend set up. Clint would look _incredible_ in those, ropes strung in intricate patterns around his skin, snaking around and over the tattoos. He shivers at the thought, one hand coming up to trace over Clint’s back as he imagines complex knots holding him in place. _Making_ him stay still.

“That’s an idea,” he murmurs, slowly dragging his cock out before pushing back in just as slow, enthralled by the low moan that it gets.

“What?” Clint asks, fingers gripping Bucky’s hand. “Tell me.”

“Tying you up,” Bucky says. He drags his metal fingers across Clint’s skin, barely more than a caress. “I think you’d look good. Tie you up all pretty and take pictures.”

Clint shudders again, nodding frantically into the couch. “Yes,” he says. “I—god, _yes_.”

“Next time,” Bucky promises, pulling his hand free and settling it on Clint’s waist. “Got other plans right now.”

He fucks Clint slowly, almost sweetly. Listens intently for every groan and gasp, and tries to replicate the movements that elicit his favorite sounds. He wishes the lights were on so that he could see Clint, but there’s something about the dim glow of the flashlight that intensifies everything too, gives it almost a dream-like quality. Maybe he is dreaming this after all, maybe it’s all in his head—

“More,” Clint says, the word hoarse and broken, and Bucky brushes a soothing hand over his back, reassuring both of them. “Bucky, please—”

“I’m here,” Bucky murmurs, leaning over him again, turning the fucking into more of a slow, sensual grind. Clint makes a punched-out noise, low in his chest, and rocks back into him. “I got you, babe, you’re doing so good for me.”

“Wanna come,” Clint whimpers.

“You can.” Bucky trails kisses across the sharp line of his shoulder blade, then says, “You want me to touch you, or keep it like this?”

“Touch me.” Clint lifts his head, turning it, and Bucky kisses the corner of his mouth. “Want—want you to touch me—”

Bucky takes his cock in hand, reveling in the way Clint’s breath stutters at the sensation. “Look so good like this,” he tells Clint again, stroking his dick in time with his own thrusts, moving a little faster. “Come for me, babe, I wanna feel it.”

Clint shivers at the words, snapping his hips back into Bucky, meeting him motion for motion. “Fuck,” he grits out, fingers tightening in the fabric of the couch as his cock twitches in Bucky’s hand, spilling over his fingers. “Oh god, _Bucky_ —”

Hearing his name like that, syllables edged with pleasure and neediness and _want_ —it sends a shock through Bucky, a thrill zipping up his spine and pushing him over the edge at the same time as Clint. He gasps at the unexpectedness of it, the intensity singing through him, his vision fuzzing out into white spots. “Oh—” he manages, breathless and utterly, _wonderfully_ ruined. “Oh—Clint—”

Clint chokes out a response and reaches back, clumsily twisting an arm to pat at Bucky. “‘m here,” he says, words thick. “Here.”

Bucky falls forward, dropping his sweat-damp forehead against Clint’s shoulder. It’s all he can do to hold himself up, legs trembling as he braces a hand on the back of the couch. “Fuck,” he breathes, dragging his mouth up the line of Clint’s shoulder, mouthing at his heightened pulse. “Oh, god, Clint.”

“You okay?” Clint asks, still slurring his words.

“Okay,” Bucky mutters, sounding the same, still sucking a lazy kiss on his neck. “Perfect.”

He stays like that for an eternity, tucked up against Clint, letting both of them come back down, mumbling a continuous string of faint praise. He’s not even sure _what_ he’s saying, but whatever it is, Clint seems to like it.

Eventually, Bucky pulls out of him, rubbing a hand over his back as Clint makes a protesting sound. “Gotta clean you up,” he murmurs, scooping up the phone to light his way into the bathroom. He strips off the condom and pulls a couple washcloths from the cabinet, wetting and scrubbing one over himself before taking another out to Clint. “C’mere, honey.”

Clint is pliable under his hands, moving bonelessly at Bucky’s quiet directions. “There,” Bucky says, moving him down to lay flat. “There you go. Back in a sec.”

He tosses the cloths in the tub and makes sure the condom is tucked securely into the trashcan—last thing he needs is anyone asking awkward questions. Then he goes back out to the couch, suddenly a little unsure of what to do. Technically, he should go back upstairs—the narrow couch really isn’t big enough for one of them, let alone two, and he _definitely_ doesn’t want to risk his parents coming down here and seeing them.

And yet.

Clint is looking up at him with sleepy, trusting eyes, the blue shine of them visible even in the dim light, and Bucky doesn’t want to leave him. He wants to curl up and fall asleep like he did last night, with Clint tucked up against his chest. Wants to watch him try and fail to wake up in the morning, blinking bleary eyes against the pull of the sunrise. He wants to _stay_ , and the strength of that thought nearly knocks him over.

“You gonna go?” Clint asks.

“I should,” Bucky says, but he doesn’t move.

“Didn’t ask if you should. Asked if you were gonna.”

Bucky rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.” Clint presses himself into the back of the couch, patting the narrow strip of cushion. “Stay.”

Bucky can think of a thousand reasons to say no, but he’s helpless against the way Clint’s looking at him, a quiet desire reflected in his face.

“Please,” he adds, and Bucky feels his resistance crumble. He crawls onto the couch, arranging them until Clint’s practically sprawled on top of him, like he was in the motel.

“This okay?” he asks, dropping a kiss on Clint’s head.

“Perfect,” Clint says, snuggling onto him as he turns the flashlight off, plunging the room into darkness. “Just for a bit, you don’t have to sleep down here.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky says, rubbing between his shoulder blades, metal fingers kneading at the muscles. Clint just about purrs, going even more boneless on top of him. He’s still naked, Bucky realizes, but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna make Clint get dressed now “I don’t care if they see me. I don’t—I don’t fucking care.” 

“Mmm,” Clint murmurs, then chuckles. “I’ll just tell them you bewitched me with your vampire ways.”

Bucky pinches his arm again, getting another little shriek out of him. “Not a vampire. Also, I don’t think that would make them feel better.” He pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and fumbles it over them. “At the very least, though, we probably shouldn’t give them an eyeful.”

“Fair. I don’t think they’d approve of the tattoo.”

Bucky snickers. “Probably not. I forgot about that.”

“So do I, most days.” Clint shifts a little bit, tucking his hand under Bucky. “Anyway.”

“Anyway?”

“We’re a thing now, right? Officially decided, sealed with a kiss?” He pauses, then says, “Technically a fuck, but whatever.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah. We’re a thing.” He can’t keep the smile off his face or out of his voice. “Officially a thing.”

“Good.” Clint kisses his chest. “You owe me breakfast, then. Since we skipped dinner and a movie, both nights. I’m feeling very un-romanced.”

“I have six dollars to my name, Clint.” Bucky pats his shoulder. “I’ll buy you coffee.”

“That’s acceptable.” Clint settles onto him.

Silence steals over the room, and Bucky feels the pull of sleep tugging at him. He goes with it, mind drifting, and he’s almost out when a sleepy voice mumbles, “‘m glad you’re here.”

“You too,” Bucky mumbles back, and falls asleep.

* * *

“Oh my _god_.”

The voice is quiet, but sharp, edged with amusement, and Bucky startles awake at the sound, slamming a hand over his eyes at the sudden brightness that assaults them. “Fuck!”

“Sorry,” the voice says, and the lights lower to a tolerable brightness. “Didn’t think about that.”

Bucky blinks his eyes open, squinting to see Becca standing by the stairs. “Becks,” he says, sleep-rough and tired. “What the fuck--”

He looks down, last night flashing back to him with brilliant clarity, and yep, there’s Clint. Still on his chest, still asleep, and still very, very naked. The blanket’s only half-covering him, most of it on the floor, and his ass is definitely on display. “Oh.”

“He has a tattoo,” she says, a wide grin on her face. “On his ass. That says _tattoo_.”

“Yep.” Bucky pokes Clint, forcing his own brain back online. “Hey. Wake up.”

“He’s adorable,” she says. “I kinda love him. Please tell me you’re officially a thing.”

“We are,” Bucky confirms, and her face lights up. “Clint. Wake up.” He looks at Becca. “What time is it?”

She looks at her watch. “Seven-thirty. We’re good on time, but you weren’t in your room and I thought you might want to know that Mom and Dad are starting to move around.”

Bucky scowls. Despite his speech last night, he really isn’t ready to tell his parents, so he nods gratefully at her and shoves Clint’s shoulder. “Hey. Get the fuck up.”

“Charming,” Becca says. “I’m going to get ready. I’ll try and head them off if they come down.” She starts back up the stairs, still grinning.

“I love you,” Bucky tells her, shoving Clint’s shoulder again. “Go do your thing, I’ll try and wake the zombie here.”

“Nottazombie,” Clint mutters, lifting his head and blinking blearily up at Bucky. “Vampire.”

Bucky pinches his arm again. Clint makes a sleepy protest and pulls his arm away with an uncoordinated flop. “You need to get off me, Clint. We gotta get up.”

“Nooooo.” Clint tightens his arms around Bucky, curling into him. “Warm.”

“My parents are getting up,” Bucky says fondly, rubbing his back. “Which means we need to move.”

Clint grumbles into his chest, then rolls over. Except there’s nowhere for him to roll, so he just tumbles down to the floor in a tangle of limbs and blanket. “What—ow—”

Bucky laughs. “You’re adorable in the mornings,” he informs Clint, who looks very confused to suddenly find himself on the floor.

“Adorable always,” Clint shoots back, then looks even more confused, reaching up to touch one of his hearing aids. “Ugh.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I should’ve taken those out for you. I know you’re not supposed to sleep with them.”

Clint shrugs. “S’not the first time.” He rubs his eyes, then looks around. “Someone here?”

“Becca came down to wake us,” Bucky says, and Clint nods tiredly. “She saw your tattoo.”

Clint looks at his arms, then back up at Bucky. “Huh?”

“The _tattoo_ ,” Bucky repeats, emphasizing the word, and Clint’s eyes go wide. “On your ass. She thought it was funny.”

“Oh,” Clint says, and ducks his head, a blush suffusing his face, turning it pink. “Oops. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Bucky reaches out and pats his head. “She’ll survive. She’s a big girl.”

Clint rubs his eyes again and nods. “Parents?”

“Waking up. Which means we need to move.”

To his credit, Clint doesn’t say anything at all about Bucky’s comments last night. He just nods and buries his face in his hands, groaning quietly. Bucky can almost see the start-up process in his brain, like watching an old computer boot up.

“Fine,” he says after a moment, and clambers to his feet. “Okay.” He looks around, visibly processing. “Uh.”

“Clothes,” Bucky tells him.

“Clothes,” Clint agrees sadly, and reaches down, snagging his pants from the floor.

“Do you even have other pants?”

“Yes.” Clint reaches down and grabs his bag, dropping it onto Bucky’s legs. He digs through it for a moment, then frowns. “No?”

“Seriously?” Bucky sits up, looking into the bag. “Yeah you do. Here.” He pulls out a pair of pants and a clean shirt, shoving them into Clint’s hands. “There. Get dressed.”

Clint blinks down at them, then nods once. “Dressed,” he repeats, blinking slowly. “Right.”

Bucky grins. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Clint mutters. He drops the pants and fumbles the shirt open, dragging it halfway over his head before realizing it’s inside out again. He manages to fix it himself, at least, all the while glaring at Bucky like he’s daring him to say something.

Bucky just watches with an innocent expression. Clint manages to put his pants on without falling over, then rummages around in his bag again with a confused mumble of, “Socks?”

“Here,” Bucky says, pulling them out.

Clint looks at his hand. “Oh.” He takes them and taps Bucky’s leg. “Move.”

Bucky gets up, freeing up space on the couch for him. “If I go upstairs and get ready, you’re not gonna fall asleep again, right?”

“No promises,” Clint says, sitting down and pulling on his socks.

“Clint,” Bucky says sternly. “We agreed to take Becca, remember?”

Clint sighs. “I know.” His expression brightens suddenly, and he looks up at Bucky. “Coffee date?”

“Afterwards,” Bucky says, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “All the coffee that six dollars can buy.”

Clint offers him a brilliant smile. “Yay,” he says, and gets up, brushing his lips over Bucky’s before going into the bathroom. Bucky watches the door close, then heads upstairs himself, managing to get back into his own room only seconds before his parents’ door opens.

He has to wait for Becca to leave the bathroom, so it takes him longer to get dressed than he meant. By the time he gets downstairs, his parents are already clattering around the kitchen, and Clint is sitting at the table. He’s smiling, but Bucky knows him well enough to see the uncomfortable tenseness in his shoulders, and the way he’s white-knuckling a mug of what’s probably tea. Bucky pauses at the bottom of the stairs, listening for a moment.

“—appreciate you driving him out here,” his mother is saying. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

“It was fine,” Clint says. “No big deal. I wouldn’t have come out here if it wasn’t.”

“Still. He shouldn’t have asked. I’ll talk to him about it.”

“He didn’t ask. I volunteered.”

His father makes a surprised sound. “Really? Why?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Clint’s hand grips the mug even tighter. “He just wanted to come to Becca’s graduation, and I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Aren’t you missing class?” his mother asks.

“Not anything important. I told my professors, anyway. They’re cool with it. I’ve got homework.”

“Still, I’m surprised he agreed to it,” his father says. “Boy’s so damn afraid of cars.”

“He’s not _afraid_ of them,” Clint says, sounding offended. “He just doesn’t like driving.”

“Mmm.” His father shakes his head. “Six years. You think he’d be over it by now.”

Bucky’s metal hand clenches on the banister, and he forces himself to stay calm. He is not going to ruin Becca’s big day by shouting at his dad. He’s _not_.

“That’s not the kind of thing you just get over,” Clint says, his voice tight. “He—he lost his whole arm. That’s...that’s a big deal.”

“He got that Stark prosthetic,” his father says. “Pretty good replacement, I’d say.” He sips his tea. “Shame he never went back to playing baseball. He was good at it. Could’ve gotten a scholarship.”

Clint stares at him, a muscle working in his jaw. “I...” he starts, then cuts himself off.

“George,” his mother says with a long-suffering sigh. “Enough about baseball. He never liked it anyway.”

“I’m just saying. Certainly would’ve been better than taking pictures. At least with baseball he could’ve gotten a scholarship—”

“He got one,” Clint says sharply.

Bucky’s parents both turn to look at him. “What?”

“He got a scholarship,” Clint says. “He got one for photography. He won the Ansel Adams Award the last four years.”

Bucky blinks in surprise. He’d mentioned that to Clint _once_ , and that was way back at the start of the school year. Stark Industries was paying for most of his school—he’d worked out a thing where they helped pay and he essentially field-tested the arm for them—but they didn’t cover all of it. The Ansel Adams Award helped make ends meet, which meant Bucky could focus on school as opposed to working constantly to cover what SI didn’t.

He’s never told anyone about winning it, other than Becca, but he and Clint had been out at a bar when he’d gotten the email about winning it this year, and he’d been unable to keep a lid on his excitement. They were both drunk off their asses at that point, which is why he’s surprised Clint remembers that conversation at all. _Bucky_ barely remembers it.

“I don’t know what that is,” his mother is saying.

“It’s a five-thousand dollar scholarship,” Clint says. His voice is still tightly controlled, but Bucky can hear the fury in it. “It’s very, very competitive, and he won it all four years he was eligible. Which is like...ridiculously hard.”

“Oh,” his mother says. “I didn’t know that.” She looks over at his father. “Why wouldn’t he tell us?”

“Beats me,” he says. “I didn’t know they gave out money for taking pictures.”

Clint stands up suddenly, a fast motion that nearly tips the chair over. “ _That’s_ why,” he says, anger visible in every line of his body. “Because you don’t give a shit about him, or the things he likes.” He stabs a finger at Bucky’s father. “Because he pours his heart and soul into this, and you put it down every fucking chance you get. If you were my parents, I wouldn’t tell you a goddamn thing either.”

He grabs his jacket from the chair and storms out of the kitchen, straight into the living room and out the front door. He doesn’t even notice Bucky, who’s still standing at the bottom of the stairs, mouth practically hanging open.

“Wow,” says a voice behind him, and he turns to see Becca in her cap and gown, just a couple steps behind him.

“I didn’t tell him to do that,” he says immediately. “I’m not—I know you didn’t want—”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I know.” There’s a cold satisfaction on her face. “He deserved it.”

Bucky’s inclined to agree with that one.

In the kitchen, his father is murmuring angrily to his mother, gesturing wildly with one arm. Bucky glances at them, then turns to Becca. “Do you want pictures?”

“Not here,” she says, and he nods. “Maybe a couple before you drop me off? There’s the brick wall outside the school that I think would make a cool background, and we can do some after, too.“

“I know the one.” He grabs his jacket off the banister and tugs it on. “We can do that. Let me grab some cameras.”

He goes back upstairs and pulls out the Zorki and his Kiev 88, then takes the Polaroid for good measure. He wishes he had his Moskva, but it’s too fragile for a cross-country trip, so he’d left it at home.

Still. Three cameras should be fine. He steals a backpack from Becca’s room, packs them up, and goes back down the stairs. His mother is fussing over Becca, cooing over her hair and her gown and setting her against the wall to take pictures with her shitty flip phone. “My baby’s so grown-up,” she says, smiling excitedly. “Can’t wait to put these on Facebook.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and steps off the stairs. “You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“James,” his mother says. “Oh sweetheart, you look so handsome. I need a picture of both of you.”

Bucky looks down at his outfit, which he doesn’t think is particularly fancy at all, just nice black jeans and a short-sleeve button down. He’d had to ask Natasha for advice—they’re not close friends, but she’s about the only fashion-sensible person he knows—and she’d taken him shopping for these. “Thanks?” He gently sets the backpack on the ground and lets her manipulate both of them into a couple uncomfortable pictures before saying, “We need to get going.”

“Oh, already?” She looks disappointed.

“We’ll be back later,” Becca says. “And you can still come to the ceremony. I left tickets on the fridge.”

“We have that meeting,” his father says, and Becca sags a little bit. It’s like a punch to Bucky’s gut, watching that, and he grits his teeth, forcing himself not to punch the man in his stupid smug face. His mother at least looks guilty, but he knows she’ll never go against him, so there’s no point in convincing her otherwise.

“Let’s go,” he says to Becca, scooping up his bag and jacket from the floor. “Clint’s waiting.”

“James,” his father says, and Bucky turns to him. “You can tell young Mr. Barton that if he wants to stay under my roof, he needs to learn some respect. I don’t appreciate being cursed at in my own house.”

“I’ll tell him,” Bucky says, opening the door. “But for the record, you deserved every goddamn word of that speech, and you fucking know it.”

He slams the door behind himself, hard enough to make the entire front porch rattle. Clint looks up from where he’s leaning against his truck, eyes wide. “I’m really sorry,” he says as Bucky and Becca come down the stairs.

“What for?” Becca asks.

Clint starts to rub a hand through his hair, his usual nervous gesture, then remembers that it’s all styled and spiked today. He drops it to the back of his neck instead. “I yelled at your parents.”

“So?” She taps the truck door, and Clint jumps to unlock it. “I don’t care. They deserved it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to, like, ruin your day or anything.”

“Trust me,” Bucky says. “You made it about ten times better.”

“You really did,” Becca adds, sliding in. “Trust me, you have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to lose it at them like that. You did us both a favor.”

Clint still looks a little upset, but Bucky pats him on the arm. He wants to push Clint against the truck and kiss him until they’re both breathless, partially to thank him and partially because he just wants to. He’s just in jeans and a white t-shirt, but there’s something about the way both things cling to him, tight in all the right places, that makes Bucky want to—

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at the little logo on the left side of Clint’s shirt, stitched in a dark green. It’s small, but unmistakable. “Is that...is that a Gremlin 47 shirt?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, beaming at him. “From their charity drive.”

“Wow,” Bucky says. “I just...wow. How obsessed are you?”

Becca leans over to the open door. “Stop making eyes at each other and get in.”

“I’m not making eyes, I’m questioning his fashion choices,” Bucky says, but he gets in. Clint goes around to the other side.

“I think you look very nice,” Becca tells him.

“Not as nice as you,” Clint says, flicking one of her curls. “You look amazing. I want to draw you.”

Becca blushes. “Really?”

“Really. Best-looking girl I’m gonna see all day.” He starts the truck and pulls into the street. “Also, where am I going?”

“High school,” she says. “The ceremony’s at the community center, but we have to meet at the school.” She digs two tickets out of her purse and hands them to Bucky. “Don’t lose these.”

“I won’t.”

Clint hesitates at the end of the street. “Remind me again where the school is?”

“Northeast of here,” Bucky says immediately.

Clint glares at him. “Becca, punch him.”

She does, landing a solid one on his right arm that’s hard enough to make him draw in a sharp breath. “He used to pull that shit all the time with me,” she tells Clint, shaking her hand out. “I banned him from giving me directions.”

“I’m about to do that,” Clint says. “Left or right?”

“Right.”

They get to the school about twenty minutes before Becca’s supposed to go in. Bucky has Clint park over by the wall she mentioned, and spends every single second posing her and taking actual, decent pictures. He takes way more than he means to, but she’s just so radiant that he can’t stop himself. He’d take a million pictures of her if he could. She deserves every one of them.

A couple of her friends drift over, and Bucky gets a few of them all together before the teachers start herding them inside. “See you at eleven,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. “You really do look beautiful.”

“Love you,” she says, and presses something into his hand. “Go buy your boyfriend some coffee.”

Bucky glances over at Clint, who’s yawning widely, then down at the ten-dollar bill in his hand. “Becks, I don’t—”

“Starbucks,” she says, smiling sweetly at him. “Take it, and go buy your boyfriend some coffee.”

“Don’t call me that,” he sighs, but closes his hand around it. “Fine. Thank you.”

“Have fun,” she says, and goes to join her friends.

Bucky wanders back over towards the truck. Clint smiles at him, then slaps a hand on the hood of it. “Coffee!”

“Coffee,” Bucky agrees, and gets in.

The coffee shop is very hipster, which Bucky finds somewhat amusing for small-town Iowa. It’s got the whole cozy-yet-industrial look about it, with exposed bricks and intimate tables and minimalist artwork on the walls. It’s cute, all things considered, although not really the kind of place he would normally frequent.

“What do you want,” he says to Clint, gesturing at the handwritten, chalkboard menu. “Anything on there.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Clint grins. “You’re the best,” he says, and proceeds to order some kind of latte monstrosity that Bucky loses track of after the first two words. “You want one?”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“He wants one,” Clint says to the barista.

She glances to Bucky, who just gives a helpless shrug. “Sure.”

“Ha.” Clint glances into the shop. “I’m gonna get a table, okay?”

“Sure.” Bucky hands over the money, suddenly grateful that Becca made him take it, because two of these are stupidly expensive.

Worth it to see Clint smile, but he misses the very cheap coffee shop on campus, where they know his name and his order and it doesn’t cost him obscene amounts of money.

The barista puts two mugs on the counter, each one with an intricate design in the foam on the top. Bucky raises an eyebrow, but grabs both and carries them over to the corner table where Clint’s sitting. “Here you go,” he says. “First official date.”

“We did it all wrong,” Clint says. “I think we’re supposed to date twice, then fuck. We fucked twice, now we’re on a date. It’s all backwards.”

Bucky laughs. “We can count the road trip if you’re desperate,” he says. “All the times we stopped for food.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t a thing then.” Clint sips his latte.

“So what, you want to go on more dates before we do it again?”

Clint smirks. “How about we do both?”

“Fine.” Bucky tries his own latte, which is surprisingly good. Much better than he expected, actually, and he can’t help the little noise that he makes “Oh. That’s...wow.”

“Told you so,” Clint says, a smug smile on his face. Bucky wants to kiss it off him. “Thou shalt not doubt me when it comes to coffee.”

Bucky takes another sip. “Ten Commandments of Clint Barton, huh?”

“Goddamn right.” Clint raises his mug in a toast. “I’ll come up with more after I finish this. Brain not fully online yet.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Clint nods, his face suddenly turning more serious. “I know you already said it was cool,” he says, “but I really am sorry about yelling at your parents. I wasn’t trying to cause trouble or anything.” He lets out a little laugh. “Although your dad already thinks I’m a juvenile delinquent, which is funny for several reasons. But I didn’t mean to. I just...got mad. At how they were talking about you.”

“I heard it,” Bucky says. “All of it. What they said, and what you said.” He pauses, then says, “I’m surprised you remembered. About the Ansel Adams Award.”

Clint shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“We were both drunk as shit. I barely remember telling you.”

“So?”

“Also, I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you about the rest of it.” Bucky taps his fingers on the table, then quotes, “‘It’s very, very competitive, and he won it all four years he was eligible.’ I _definitely_ didn’t tell you that.”

“I looked it up,” Clint says. “It’s public knowledge. And I know a couple photography majors, they told me that it was stupid hard to win, and that you were really fucking talented for getting it. Which I knew, but still.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Why would you look that up?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why do you care?” He winces. “That came out wrong. I mean, why did you take the time to do that, when we weren’t—” he gestures between them “—a thing?”

Clint smiles slightly. “You’re important to me,” he says. “And you have been for a long time. And even if we were never gonna be a thing, I wanted to know because I’ve never seen you look so happy about anything your whole fucking life. I didn’t get it, at first, so I looked it up. Now I do.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just stares into his mug, watching the brown liquid swirl around. Part of him wants to make a joke about stalkers, but the other part of him is slowly starting to realize just how _long_ Clint’s liked him, and the thought of that is almost more than he can handle.

“Oh,” he says, finally looking up. “I, uh...”

Clint’s studying him, something unreadable in his eyes. “You’re worth knowing, Bucky,” he says softly, and Bucky has to look away at that. He stares through the window, not really seeing any of the cars pass by, and it’s a long time before he can return his gaze to Clint without feeling like he’s about to start crying or something.

“Thanks,” he says roughly. “For saying something to them. It means a lot to me.” He tries for a smile. “Dad’s pretty pissed, though. Mostly about the cursing.”

Clint winces. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have said it like that, but I kinda lost my head for a second.”

“I appreciated it.” He grips his mug tightly. “It’s all the things I’ve wanted to say for years. I’m just not...brave enough.”

“That’s not true,” Clint says. “You’re plenty brave. But some people just don’t get it, and they’re not worth the time or energy it takes to explain it.” He sighs. “And it doesn’t matter how much you yell at them. They’re just...they just don’t get it.”

Well, he’s got a point there. Bucky’s _tried_ , tried so many times to explain his passion for photography to his parents. He thinks sometimes his mother might understand, or at the very least, love him anyway. His father, though... “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I’ll apologize,” Clint says. “To smooth things over, if that’s what it takes. But I meant every word of it. And I’m not really sorry for it. Not even a little bit. You deserve a hell of a lot better than to be treated like that.”

Bucky looks around the coffee shop. They’re alone in here; the only other people are working behind the counter, and he doesn’t recognize either of them. So he chances reaching forward, winding his fingers into Clint’s and squeezing his hand. “Thank you,” he says.

He feels like he should add something to that, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know how to put what he’s feeling into words. Doesn’t even know if there are words for it, really. So he just settles for the physical contact, rubbing his thumb over Clint’s knuckles, and hopes that it’s enough to convey everything.

“You’re welcome,” Clint murmurs, and he smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> Gremlin on the banner by [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/), but this design was put together by [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). You are both amazing.
> 
> Also you may have noticed the chapter count going up, and that is because this one would've been 14k otherwise. So we split it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re smart,” Bucky says, oddly stung by the words.
> 
> Clint does a little half-shrug. “Not really. It’s not a big deal, I’m good with what I’ve got.” He smiles at Bucky, but it’s not like his other ones. There’s no joy in it, and it doesn’t touch his eyes. It’s a facade, a mask, and Bucky knows him too well to be fooled by it.

“Man, I haven’t been here in _years_ ,” Clint says when they get to the community center. “My parents used to make me and Steve help with the plays here in the summers.”

Bucky laughs. “Oh shit, I remember that. He _hated_ those.”

“Yeah. Remember that one time that he had to stand in for someone?”

“Yeah, he was a...tulip? Some kinda flower.”

“He was a daisy,” Clint says. “He was a daisy, and the makeup turned his face yellow, and it stayed that way for _weeks_. Funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. He was so mad.” He leans forward to check out the announcements scrolling on the marquee. “Hey, look at what they’re doing this year.”

Bucky looks over in time to see _NOSFERATU: THE MUSICAL_ scrolling across the banner, followed by _AUDITIONS OPEN._

“Wanna go try out?” Clint asks, grinning widely. “You’re a shoo-in for the main part.”

“I’m not a vampire,” Bucky sighs, rolling the window down. He puts his arm out in the sunlight. “See? No burning.”

“Not all vampires burn in the sun,” Clint says, pulling his face into a more serious expression, although Bucky can see the smile tugging at his lips. “Dracula was only weakened by daylight. And Count von Count likes the sun. He sleeps at night.”

Bucky’s lost for words, mostly because he doesn’t know who the hell Count von Count is supposed to be. “Why do you know so much about vampires,” he finally says.

“I told you,” Clint says, opening his car door and getting out. “You’re important to me. I wanted to know things about you.”

“But—” Bucky starts, and Clint closes the door, then waves at him to get out. Bucky sighs, but shoves open his own door. “I think you’re projecting,” he says.

“Huh?”

“I think _you’re_ the vampire, and you’re calling me one to throw me off guard.”

Clint laughs. “You’re the dark and broody one,” he says. “I’m too happy to be a vampire.”

“Yeah, but vampires are known for being charming, and considering you’ve charmed your way into free coffee, free muffins, and free glass-blowing classes on this trip alone...” He trails off, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “I think you’re the vampire.”

“Unlikely,” Clint says, “but I like that you think I’m charming.” He leans against the truck and winks at Bucky, twirling his keys in his hand.

Bucky shakes his head, doing his best to hide a smile. “We’re a little early,” he says, looking at his watch and shouldering his bag. “We’ve got about an hour before we probably need to go find seats.”

“Wanna walk around? See if there’s anything going on?”

“Sure.”

The community center is pretty much exactly what Bucky remembers, which isn’t much. He’d gone to summer camp here a few times as a kid, and he’d occasionally been dragged into helping Mrs. Rogers with the plays along with Steve, but otherwise he’d avoided this place like the plague. Still, it looks exactly the same, just like everything other fucking thing in this town. There’s the same flickering fluorescent lights, and the same odd scent of crayons and glue permeating the air. The floors are still that ugly brown tile, and there’s a vague sense of depression that seems to cling to the brick walls, turning everything into shades of grey.

Bucky digs out his Zorki and takes a picture of the hallway. He’ll have to do something special for this one when he develops it, try and capture the dinginess of the place somehow. Let it develop a little longer, then try and tone it with something new. Some kind of dark cola, maybe, or even India ink—he’d have to dilute it a ton, but that would bring out the general grubbiness pretty well.

He takes a couple more, just so he’ll have some extras to work with, then lowers the camera. “This place is a shithole,” he says to Clint, who’s slowly turning around, examining the entryway with a distantly disgusted expression.

“Hasn’t changed at all,” Clint agrees.

“That’s what I was thinking.” Bucky points down a hall. “Some kid threw up there once at summer camp.”

“Gross,” Clint says. “Wanna go upstairs? I vaguely remember there being a library up there.”

“Okay.” He follows Clint up the stairs, their footsteps muffled by the thin, peeling blue carpet.

Upstairs isn’t much better, really. There’s more locked classrooms up here, and more flickering lights. The crayons and glue scent fades, replaced the smell of by stale sweat and shoes coming from the gym to the left of the stairs. “Ugh,” Clint says, and tugs Bucky’s sleeve. “Come on. I think it’s in the back.”

He walks down the hallway, pushing open the double doors at the end of it. It’s bigger than Bucky was expecting, big enough for multiple rows of shelves. It smells better in here, at least, more like dust and paper and that particular kind of mustiness that Bucky generally associates with older libraries. Clint flicks the light switch and above them, a couple fluorescent lights attempt to buzz into life, providing more of a quiet hum instead of any actual illumination.

Bucky takes a few pictures of the books on the front desk, the haphazard way they’re stacked on top of each other, some falling open to catch the faint rays of sunlight trickling through the windows. “I don’t remember this,” he says to Clint.

“Mom would make me come up here,” he says, trailing his fingers over a nearby shelf of books. “When I would get in the way too much with the theater stuff.” He tips out one of the books, then lets it fall back into place with a _thud_. “One of the volunteers would read to me.”

“I hate people reading to me,” Bucky says, swapping the Zorki for his Polaroid. “I get too impatient. Like reading my own stuff.”

“I’m not good at reading,” Clint admits, and Bucky glances over at him. There’s an odd expression on his face, some mix of sadness and anger, and he’s staring at the books like he wants to hit them. “I—I had a hard time with it to start, and then after I got sick, it was harder.” His left hand touches his hearing aid, almost unconsciously. “I’m not smart enough for words. That’s why I do art. Doesn’t need any explaining. You just do it, you know?” He touches his chest. “Comes from here.”

“You’re smart,” Bucky says, oddly stung by the words.

Clint does a little half-shrug. “Not really. It’s not a big deal, I’m good with what I’ve got.” He smiles at Bucky, but it’s not like his other ones. There’s no joy in it, and it doesn’t touch his eyes. It’s a facade, a mask, and Bucky knows him too well to be fooled by it.

“Hey.” He sets his camera down. “You’re—Clint, you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

Clint reaches up for his hair, then scowls and drops his hand onto the back of his neck instead. “Really not,” he mutters, looking uncomfortable. “My grades kinda suck. They might have to hold me back a year.” He shifts his weight, then says, “I have a meeting next week with my professors. We’re supposed to talk about it then.”

Bucky blink in surprise. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t tell anybody,” Clint says. “Didn’t even tell Steve.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “He’d just lecture me anyway.”

Bucky starts to disagree, but he doesn’t know Steve well enough anymore to make that call. “I’m sorry,” he says, scrambling to think of something more concrete to say.

Clint huffs out a bitter laugh. “Not your fault I’m stupid,” he says, trying that fake smile again. “Anyway. You know what college experience I’ve never had?”

“You’re not stupid,” Bucky says sharply. “You—you’re not. Don’t even fucking say that.”

“It’s really fine—” Clint starts.

“It’s really not.” Bucky steps towards him. “Being good at reading doesn’t mean—it’s not a fucking qualifier for intelligence. You’re smart, Clint. You’re so goddamn smart I don’t know what to do with you half the time.” He crosses his arms. “You take a blank canvas and turn it into art without a second thought. Christ, man, the thing you were painting for the play? It—you made, like, three fucking lines on it, and I could _see_ what it was going to be.”

“That’s just—” Clint starts, but Bucky cuts him off.

“You notice so much,” he says. “You noticed every fucking time I flinched in the car on the way here and you—you just fixed it, no big deal, even when I didn’t say anything. You remember shit I told you when I was half-drunk, and you made the effort to learn more because it was important to me.” He steps a little closer, taking Clint’s arm and displaying the tattoos there. “Remember the museum?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, voice barely a whisper.

“You realize I said like...five things the entire time we were there? The rest of it was you, talking. Tellin’ me about art. All the names and the techniques and shit, and you just knew it. Didn’t have to look it up or anything, you just kept going, and it was amazing. Could’ve listened to you forever.” He trails his fingers over the expanse of ink, watching as Clint shivers under his touch. “You don’t get to say you’re not smart, because you _are_. Reading’s just a little part of it, Clint. I don’t like you because you can quote Shakespeare at me, I like you because you’re funny and you tell stupid jokes and you get all lit up when you talk about stuff you like.”

He reaches up, nudging Clint’s chin until he finally looks up from the floor, blue eyes meeting Bucky’s. “If I’m worth knowing,” he says softly, “then so are you.”

Clint blinks once, then throws himself into Bucky’s arms with enough force to send him stumbling back into the bookshelves opposite. He’s taller than Bucky, but he somehow fits perfectly, dropping his head onto Bucky’s shoulder and tucking into his chest like he’s always belonged there. “Okay,” he whispers, the word choked with emotion. “Okay.”

Bucky gets his balance back without knocking over any bookshelves, and holds onto him. He doesn’t say anything else, and neither does Clint. They just stand there, hanging onto each other under the flickering hum of the fluorescent lights, neither one willing to let go just yet.

Eventually, though, Clint shifts his weight and pulls back, rubbing at his eyes. He offers Bucky a shaky smile, a real one this time. “Sorry,” he says in a rough voice. “Didn’t mean to knock you over.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, fighting the urge to rub at his back where the metal shelf dug into it. “I’m a big tough vampire, I can handle it.”

Clint snorts and drops his hand. “I knew it,” he says, and pulls out his phone. “Ugh, we’ve still got like...thirty minutes.”

“We can talk about our feelings some more,” Bucky says, and Clint laughs even as his shoulders relax, the rest of the tension draining from him.

“No,” he says. “One large emotional moment per day is enough for me, thanks.” He clears his throat and looks around the library, like he’s trying to find some other topic to seize on. Bucky decides not to probe any further.

“So what college experience did you never have?” he asks.

“What?”

“What college experience did you never have? You said, before we got all sappy—”

Clint snickers. “Oh. Never got busy in the stacks with anyone.” He shrugs one shoulder.

“Really?” Bucky asks, because that’s something _he’s_ done, and he’s kind of shocked Clint hasn’t. “Why not?”

“Just never happened. I don’t know.” Clint tilts his head. “Why, have you?”

“Yeah. Sophomore year.”

“With who?”

“I don’t remember. It was the beginning of the year. You know how they do that giant welcome-back party with all the bubbles and stuff?”

Clint gasps in mock surprise, putting a hand on his chest. “ _You_ went to the bubble party? You left your vampire cave and went outside to _socialize?_ ”

“I go to parties,” Bucky says. “What do you think I do all day, sit in my room and brood?”

“Yes.” Clint grins at him, and Bucky shoves his shoulder.

“I have a social life,” he grouses. “I just prefer being alone. Or being with you.”

Clint’s face lights up, but all he says is, “So how’d you get from bubbles to the library?”

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t remember, honestly. I just remember we knocked some books off a shelf, and then he started asking about my arm, and I...I’m pretty sure I punched him in the nose and left.”

Clint laughs hard enough that he has to brace a hand on the shelf to keep upright. “Wow,” he says, and Bucky flushes in embarrassment. “Romantic, aren’t ya?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Anyway. Wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, really. It’s kinda cramped up there and the librarians walk around too much.”

Clint looks vaguely disappointed. “Guess I’m not missing out, then.”

“If you want sex in a library, there’s better libraries to do it in,” Bucky says, pushing him back a little bit, metal hand against his chest until he bumps into the shelves opposite. “This one’s pretty nice.”

Clint looks around at the flickering lights, and the peeling carpet, and the dusty books tucked away on their metal shelves. “If you say so,” he says doubtfully, and Bucky grins as he sinks to his knees. Clint’s eyes go wide. “Are you—”

“Was thinking about it,” Bucky says, reaching for his jeans. “You want me to stop?”

“God, no.” Clint braces his hands on the shelves behind him. “You can do anything you want, holy shit.”

Bucky grins and flicks the button open, tugging the zipper down. “Anything, huh? That gives me a wide range.”

“Well, we only have like twenty minutes, so—” He cuts off as Bucky tugs his pants down, just enough to pull his cock out. “Okay. This is happening.”

“It’s happening,” Bucky agrees.

“Door’s not locked.”

“So?” Bucky pushes up his shirt, then leans forward enough to trace his tongue along the edge of the Monet, imagining he can taste the subtle waves inked onto Clint’s skin.

Clint bites off a little moan and looks down at him, already breathing harder. Bucky leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the curve of his hip, drifting down his thigh, listening as Clint makes little noises in response to every one of them. He adds the barest scrape of teeth, just enough to tease him, and Clint shivers before grinning down. “Gonna bite me?” he asks, voice breathy. “Fucking vampire.”

Bucky grins back. “I might,” he says, tracing a finger over the sensitive skin, just barely enough to touch him. “Would be a good spot to.” He presses down a little bit. “Big artery here, you know.”

“Mmm.” Clint’s eyes are sparkling with amusement. “A vampire would know.”

Bucky leans forward, keeping his eyes on Clint as he runs his tongue over the same path before gently biting him, adding just enough pressure to make Clint hiss in a breath and arch his back, hands tightening on the shelf. Bucky holds it a few more seconds, then pulls off with a wet sound and rubs his thumb over it. “Gonna bruise,” he says, looking at the reddened mark.

“I don’t care.”

“Wasn’t apologizing.” Bucky does the same to the other side, leaving a similar mark as Clint gasps and tips his head back, swearing loudly at the ceiling. He laughs and leans back, pressing on that one too just to watch him jolt into it. “Best keep quiet, honey. Wouldn’t want anyone walking in on this.”

“Trying,” Clint gasps. His cock is hard and dripping already, straining up towards his stomach. It’s a hell of an ego boost, considering all Bucky’s really done is get on his knees and give him a couple of hickeys. “You just— _fuck_.”

Bucky lets out a low chuckle and sits back on his heels, keeping his hands on Clint’s thighs, putting _just_ enough pressure on the twin marks. “I can stop if you want,” he says. “If you think it’ll be too much.”

“Did I say that?” Clint looks down at him, pupils black with desire. “I can do it.”

“You sure?” Bucky takes his cock in hand, rubbing his thumb just under the head, watching as Clint’s hips stutter forward at the light touch. “We can always leave it until tonight.”

Clint narrows his eyes, even as he pushes into Bucky’s light grip. “We could,” he says. “Or you could— _fuck_ —just suck my dick already.”

Bucky doesn’t. He just moves his hand a little, collecting the precome beading at the tip and spreading it around, keeping his touch maddeningly light. He’s aware of the press of time, and the need to keep things relatively quiet, but watching Clint try to keep himself under control is just so goddamn _mesmerizing_.

“Bucky,” Clint whines, his voice catching on the word. “Why?”

“Why not?” Bucky asks, and Clint’s head thuds back onto the metal shelf, hard enough to make Bucky wince. “I told you last night. I like you like this.”

“Fuck,” Clint mutters at the ceiling. “Gonna— _oh god_ —gonna kill me, you know.”

“No,” Bucky says, a little regretfully. “Not enough time.” He takes Clint in his mouth, sucking lightly at the head before taking him deeper, down to where his hand is wrapped around him. He comes back up slow and steady, keeping his eyes on Clint, who is panting and muttering things at the ceiling as he rubs a hand over his face.

Bucky pauses, then swirls his tongue around, and Clint’s hand slams back on the shelf, the noise of it echoing through the room with a sharp crack. They both freeze at that, glancing towards the door, but when nothing happens, Bucky relaxes a little bit and pulls off. “Maybe we should stop,” he says, even and conversational. “I don’t think you can be quiet.”

“I think I can,” Clint shoots back.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking su- _aaaaaah_ —” He loses the rest of the word in a moan as Bucky takes him deep again. Bucky chuckles around him, then pulls back off, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. It takes Clint a moment to find his voice after that, forcing the words out between breaths. “Jesus,” he says, white-knuckling the shelves. “Bucky, what the _fuck_ —”

“Being quiet,” Bucky reminds him, and does it again. Clint lets out a string of muttered curses and goes back to panting at the ceiling. Bucky takes a little pity on him and settles into a slightly more predictable rhythm, letting Clint move with him. He keeps an eye on every little reaction, cataloguing his favorites for next time.

Next time. He’s got Clint in his mouth right now and he’s already fucking thinking of next time.

_You’re so far gone on him,_ he realizes, but he figures that’s a pretty good thing to be for his own boyfriend.

Clint makes a muffled little whining noise and Bucky looks up to see him biting at his hand in an effort to keep quiet, the other one still securely gripping the shelf. Bucky fights back a laugh and keeps going.

“Gonna—” Clint starts, and Bucky taps his leg once. Clint lets out a choked sound and his muscles tense under Bucky’s fingers, the beginnings of an orgasm roiling through him. Bucky swallows around him, working him through it and then a little bit beyond, going until Clint reaches down to shove him off with a gritted, “Fuck, stop, _please_ —”

Bucky relents and sits back, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand before looking up at Clint. He looks fucking _wrecked_ , face red and sweaty as he blinks rapidly to clear his vision.

“Jesus,” he says, glancing down to Bucky. He reaches forward and swipes a trembling thumb over Bucky’s swollen lips, collecting a few stray drops of come before pushing it into Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky sucks it clean, swirling his tongue around before pulling back. “Everything you wanted?” he asks.

Clint makes a strangled noise of assent and nods, still looking off balance.

Bucky grins and slowly gets to his feet, letting his body adjust to the change in position. “Good,” he says. “Glad to hear it.”

Clint mutters something and grabs the front of Bucky’s shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, and Bucky smiles. “That was— _fuck_ , that was so hot.”

“Good,” Bucky says again, kissing him back. He tucks Clint back into his pants and smooths down the ruffled spots in his hair, then brushes a hand through his own hair. “How do I look?”

“Great,” Clint says, still sounding dazed. “I—you always look good.”

“You’re sweet,” Bucky tells him, straightening his clothes. “Come on. We should go get seats.” He takes Clint’s hand and tugs him towards the door, remembering to grab his cameras on the way. “Wanna get a good angle for pictures.”

Clint follows him, stumbling a little bit before he gets his feet under him. “Your turn next time,” he says. 

Bucky glances at him. “You don’t owe me,” he starts, and Clint waves a hand.

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean like, your fantasy next time. I got sex in a library. I wanna do something for you.”

Bucky thinks again about tying him up, the press of ropes over his skin, the different ties he could do to make certain tattoos stand out. The thought immediately sends a flash of arousal through him, which he does his best to squash. _Not a good time_. “I have ideas,” is all he says, and Clint lights up at the words. “But not now. Let’s go get seats.”

They make their way back through the grubby halls of the community center, heading over towards the theater. There’s already a line forming, although it’s not long enough to be a nuisance yet. Bucky examines the crowd of people with growing trepidation. He doesn’t care for crowds of people. Never has.

Clint nudges him. “It’ll be fine,” he says, accurately reading Bucky’s expression. “Come on.”

They get in line. It moves relatively quickly, and before long they’re passing their tickets over, then settling into faded, musty seats in the theater.

“Smells like mothballs in here,” Clint mutters, and Bucky has to agree with that sentiment. Clint settles into his chair, glancing at the decorated stage, then checks his phone. “Still got an hour.” He drums his fingers on his leg. “Wanna play a game?”

“Like what?” Bucky thinks about the semi-disastrous game of ‘never have I ever’ they played in the car. Clint must read that on his face, because he shakes his head and pulls out his phone.

“Here,” he says, setting it on the arm of the chair between them. “Air hockey.”

Bucky looks down at the glowing pucks on the screen. “It’s a little small, isn’t it?”

“That can be your excuse for losing,” Clint says, offering a flippant grin.

Bucky sees that for the blatant goading that it is, but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna back down from it. He settles his finger on the screen and fixes Clint with a challenging stare. “Try me.”

“Hell yeah,” Clint says, and starts the game.

They play three rounds, becoming increasingly competitive with each other. The trash talk also escalates, to the point where an older woman sitting in front of them turns around, fixing them with a glare that could peel paint. Bucky glares back, but when Clint tries to start a fourth round, he shakes his head. “We should stop,” he says, looking around. “It’s gonna start soon, and I’m pretty sure if we keep it up, this nice lady in front of us is going to call security.”

“Fuck her,” Clint says, but he tucks his phone away anyway, trading it for a sharpie that he flips around his fingers.

Bucky gives an amused snort. “Do you always carry sharpies?”

“I am an _artist_ ,” Clint says, sounding affronted. “So yes. I have a whole pocket of them.” He brings out a fistful of colors, then puts them back.

“I kind of adore you,” Bucky tells him, and Clint ducks his head, his ears turning red. “Okay. What are they for?”

“Snacks for later.” Clint snickers. “The fuck you think they’re for? Drawing.”

Bucky punches his shoulder. “Asshole. Did you bring paper, or were you planning on drawing on the seats?”

“A canvas will present itself,” Clint says mysteriously, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

An older woman walks across the stage, heading for the podium. Bucky vaguely recognizes her as the principal from his high school years. “Nothing ever changes here,” he comments to Clint, who nods sagely.

The principal gives a speech about the end of the school year, and change, and new beginnings, and all the graduates file in. Bucky picks his sister out easily, waving to her. She smiles and waves back. Then there’s more speeches, all of them just as dull as the first. Bucky listens with half an ear, more interested in the way Clint is fidgeting in his chair, spinning the sharpie around in his hand. It’s almost mesmerizing, the way he’s flipping it around his fingers, occasionally swapping from hand to hand, confident in both. He’s not even paying attention to it—he’s too busy staring at Bucky’s left arm, tucked away in the jacket.

“Hey,” he whispers after a minute. “Let me see your arm.”

“We’re with _people_ ,” Bucky hisses back, because the last thing he wants to do is display his arm in the middle of a crowd. He’s already uncomfortable with the press of people around them, the last thing he wants is their eyes focusing his way. “And they’re starting to call names.”

“Please?” Clint asks, a begging tone entering his voice. “I wanna try something.” He reaches for Bucky’s left hand, keeping his movements slow. “I think you’ll like it.”

Bucky lets him tug the metal into his lap. Clint pops the cap off the Sharpie with his mouth, then flattens Bucky’s hand palm up. “Hold still,” he mumbles around the cap, and starts drawing on the metal.

Bucky watches with intrigue. This arm can’t feel like his other one can, but he does faintly register the pressure of Clint’s fingers holding him in place. He glances up at the ceremony, making sure they’re not at Becca yet, then looks back down. Clint’s drawing a face, with narrowed eyes and a wicked smile, and two little fangs—

“You gotta be kidding me,” Bucky sighs, and Clint chuckles, keeping the sharpie moving. “Really?”

Clint lets go of his hand and pulls the cap from his mouth. “It’s you,” he says, tapping it. “I mean, I thought you might want to know what you look like, since you can’t see your reflection—”

“I hate you,” Bucky tells him, and he just snickers before pushing up Bucky’s jacket sleeve.

“Better take this off, then, or else I’m gonna draw a whole little family of vampires. You want something else, I’m gonna need more room.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but after a moment, starts to shrug off his jacket. “No more vampires,” he says.

“Cross my heart,” Clint says, and a mischievous smile curves his lips. “You know—”

Bucky covers his mouth with his free hand. “Nope. You already made a vampire joke. Your quota for the hour is fulfilled.”

Clint licks his hand, and Bucky pulls it back with an annoyed growl. “Fine,” Clint agrees, making a show of checking his watch. “T-minus thirty minutes. Got it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes again, and Clint sets to work. He starts on Bucky’s shoulder, intent on his work, sharpie curving and swirling. Bucky tries to look at what he’s drawing, but the angle is awkward, so he settles for watching Clint’s face instead.

He’s never seen this before. Sure, he’s watched Clint work dozens of times—hell, he’s even got pictures of it—but he’s always off to the side, or behind him. He’s never directly watched Clint’s face before, and it fascinates him. There’s a little furrow between Clint’s eyebrows that deepens the more he concentrates, and he bites at his lip ring when he hesitates between lines, tilting his head as he studies the curve of Bucky’s arm. His eyes are intent, focused on his work, and there’s so much _care_ in his gaze that it makes Bucky’s heart ache. It’s the same way he’d looked at Bucky last night—tenderly, like Bucky _means_ something, like he’s _worth_ taking the time to study—

“There,” Clint says, satisfied as hell. He recaps the sharpie and sets it down, turning Bucky’s arm to examine his work. “Ta-da.”

Bucky holds his arm up. It takes him a moment to recognize the art, since he’s upside down, but as soon as he reverses it in his head, he gets it. “Van Gogh,” he says, and Clint nods.

“ _Starry Night_.” He shrugs. “Cliche, I know, but I like it. It’s pretty.”

“That’s amazing,” Bucky says, staring at the swirls and the church steeple. “How—it’s just a sharpie on metal, how the fuck do you do that?”

“Magic,” Clint says, blushing at the praise. “And practice. Mostly magic.”

They call Becca’s name, and Bucky jumps to his feet, letting out a loud whistle as he claps. Clint cheers next to him, and the beam of Becca’s smile is easy to see, even from a distance. She gets her honors medal, and her diploma cover, and shakes the principal’s hand. As she crosses to the other side of the stage she turns to look at him, and he sticks his metal fist in the air, heart swelling with joy.

God, he’s so fucking _proud_ of her. His baby sister, valedictorian and honor student. She’s so fucking incredible.

She puts her own fist up, mirroring his pose, then goes back to her seat. Bucky sits down, unable to keep the smile off his face. “She did it,” he says to Clint. “She fucking did it.”

“Hell yeah she did,” Clint says, spinning the sharpie in his hand. “She’s the best.” He gestures down at the sea of students below. “Although you realize that we have to sit through the rest of this, right? We can’t leave.”

“I know,” Bucky says, and he offers Clint his arm. “Here.”

Clint’s face lights up. “You serious?”

“No vampires,” Bucky tells him.

“No vampires,” Clint agrees, and he flips Bucky’s hand palm up again. Bucky expects him to sketch something, but instead, he presses a little sticker to the inside of Bucky’s wrist. “You can have a gremlin instead.” He flips his own left wrist over, showing off his Gremlin 47 tattoo. “Now we match!”

Bucky groans. “You realize I _hate_ their music, right?”

“You’ll come around,” Clint says confidently. “I did.” He drags Bucky’s arm into his lap, spreading it over his thighs. “No moving.”

“No moving,” Bucky promises, and sits back to watch the magic happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> All artwork by [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint laughs as he navigates through the streets. “This is gonna be fun, isn’t it?”
> 
> Bucky thinks about it. Thinks about visiting museums, and stopping for food, and playing shitty Gremlin 47 music on the way. Thinks about sleeping in motels, and watching Clint wake up in the morning. Thinks about how he’d just agreed to more driving without a second thought, because he trusts Clint to keep him safe wherever they’re going.
> 
> “It’s gonna be fucking amazing,” Bucky says, and Clint’s whole face lights up with a smile.

They find Becca in the crowd of students afterwards. Or rather, Becca finds them—one minute Bucky’s looking around for her, the next she’s barreling into his arms with a little shriek of joy. “I did it,” she says, lips against his ear. “I did it, I did it, I’m done—”

“Hell yeah you did,” Bucky says, holding her tightly. “Proud of you, Becks.”

He sets her down and she goes right to Clint, wrapping him up in a hug just as tight. Clint looks a little surprised at first, but then hugs her back, a small smile spreading over his face.

One of Becca’s friends looks at Bucky with interest, and he suddenly realizes he’s still got his jacket off, and the metal arm is on full display. It’s absolutely covered in drawings—Clint had gone to town on it, and Bucky had been more than happy to let him do it. He’s got Starry Night and the vampire still, but there’s also a semi-accurate Zorki, and a compass pointing to northeast, and a couple of other things that Bucky hasn’t had a chance to examine yet. “That’s cool,” she says, studying the designs. “Are those—did you do those?”

“Clint did,” Bucky says, and Becca immediately lets go of him to grab at Bucky’s arm, making appreciative noises at the colors.

“I got bored.” Clint ducks his head a little, looking faintly embarrassed.

“They’re awesome,” the girl says. Bucky tries to remember her name—Pepper, maybe?—as she tosses her red hair. “You’re really good.” She looks at Becca. “Is this your brother?”

“This is Bucky,” she says, pointing at him. “He’s my brother. And that’s Clint.” She hesitates for a moment, eyes on Bucky, a silent question in them.

Bucky glances at Clint, then slips a hand into his. “He’s my boyfriend,” he says, and Clint’s answering smile is bright enough to outshine the goddamn sun.

“Cool,” Pepper says, and turns to Becca. “A bunch of us are going out to the river to do pictures and stuff, wanna come?”

Becca nudges Bucky. “You good with that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says absently, still looking at Clint, who’s looking right back at him, eyes shining with happiness. “Whatever you want.”

They drive out to the river, and Bucky manages to tear his gaze away from Clint long enough to pose the group of girls for a couple shots, getting some decent ones with his Kiev before the parents all descend with their phones and elbow him out of the way. Bucky steps back and watches with a fond smile as they laugh and crowd together, the energy spilling from them almost enough to be tangible.

“I remember being like this,” Clint says next to him, adjusting his sunglasses. “All excited about going to college. Starting the future. Getting out of here.”

Bucky takes a picture of him, trying to capture the long way he’s leaning against the truck, and how the light sets off his hair. “You say that like you’re so old,” he says, swapping to his Polaroid. “You realize that was only a few years ago, right?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Clint murmurs, eyes on the girls. “Steve texted me, by the way. Says to tell Becca congrats.”

“Did you tell him about us?”

“I did not.” Clint lifts one hand. “Thought I should ask you first. I mean, I know I can’t hide it or anything, not forever. But if you want me to, I can just...not mention it for awhile.”

Bucky bites his lip, then nods. “You can tell him,” he says, and backs up for a better angle. “If you want, we can call him tonight. Tell him together.”

Clint goes still. “Are you sure?” he asks, caution in every word. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Bucky says. “I—it’s been a long time. I wouldn’t mind. And I think he deserves to hear it from both of us.”

Clint pokes at his lip ring, studying Bucky with an intensity that makes him shiver. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “I think he’d like that.” A mischievous look spreads over his face. “He’s gonna freak when he hears, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m me,” Clint says. “And you’re you.”

“That’s cryptic,” Bucky tells him, but he knows what Clint means. “Doesn’t matter. He’s in Portland. What’s he gonna do, fly out to the city and lecture us?”

“He would,” Clint says, and _yeah_ , he’s got a point. “But I think he might actually be glad, once he’s done losing his shit.” He pushes his sunglasses up a little further. “He’s probably tired of hearing me talk about you.”

“You talk about me?”

“All the damn time,” Clint says easily, and he smiles. “To anyone who’ll listen.” He holds out his hand, beckoning him forward. “In case it escaped your notice, I’m kinda into you.”

Bucky moves closer, easily sliding into the space next to him. The metal of the truck is warm against his back, and Clint is a solid presence at his side, and Bucky’s so goddamn happy to be here he almost can’t breathe with it.

“Bucky!” Becca yells, motioning him over, and Bucky goes off to play photographer again. He follows their instructions, taking pictures of caps and diplomas and smiling faces. In between, he looks over at Clint, who’s still leaning against the truck. He’s got a lazy smile on his face, and one arm slung haphazardly over the tailgate, tattoos on full display in the sunlight.

Bucky takes a picture of him, and the smile gets just a little bit brighter.

“Hey,” Becca says, appearing at his elbow. “I’m gonna go with Pepper and her parents, they’ve got a party set up at her house.”

“Sure,” Bucky says, pulling his eyes away from Clint. “Okay. Do I need to pick you up, or—“

“They live down the street, remember? I’ll just walk home.” She holds out her cap and gown. “But if you could take this, though...”

Bucky shifts his camera to his other hand and takes both things. “Got it. Anything else?”

Becca gestures at Clint. “Do you want me to take one of you two?” She bumps him with her elbow. “I promise to be very careful with your baby.”

Bucky considers for a moment, then hands her the Zorki. “Very careful,” he says sternly. “Two hands on it at all times.”

She snaps a salute, and he sticks his tongue out at her before walking back over to the truck. “She’s going with a friend,” he tells Clint. “So we’re clear to go.”

“Cool.” Clint looks over his shoulder, and the shock on his face is easy to read even through his sunglasses. “You let her touch your _camera?_ ”

“I trust her,” Bucky says. “And she knows what the consequences are if she drops it.”

“They were clearly explained to me several years ago,” Becca says as she gets closer. “There were threats of losing fingers.”

Clint snorts. “Classy.”

“Shut up,” Bucky says. “I worked hard to pay for those. There’s a lot of time and money invested there.”

“All those water tower commissions, I know.” Clint grins at him, and Bucky grins back, that happy feeling swelling in his chest again. There’s a click as Becca snaps a picture of it, shrugging when Bucky glances at her.

She takes a couple more posed ones, then hands it back to Bucky. “Love you,” she says, and wraps him in a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Love you too,” Bucky says. “Proud as hell of you. Go have fun, you fucking earned it.”

“See you at home.” She kisses his cheek, then waves at Clint before bouncing back to her friends.

Bucky turns to Clint. “We’re free,” he says. “Any thoughts?”

“Denver,” Clint says immediately. “Ice cream.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Colorado’s a little far for ice cream. How long do you want this road trip to be?”

“Forever,” Clint says, taking the cap and gown so Bucky can put the camera away. “But wrong Denver. I’m talking about the town down the road.”

“Oh, yeah. Fuck, I forgot that place exists. They have ice cream?”

“Scotch-a-roo Cyclones, specifically.”

Bucky sighs. “I don’t know what that is.”

Clint laughs. “Your life was so boring before me, wasn’t it?” He opens the truck door and tosses the stuff in. “Don’t worry, it’s vampire-friendly.”

“I’m not—” Bucky starts, then gives up, because why even bother at this point. “Fine. You’re buying.”

“Sugar daddy status,” Clint drawls, Midwestern accent thick as he slides in the truck. “Hop in, baby.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Bucky tells him.

“I know,” Clint says, that lazy smile on him again as he starts the engine. “But you like me anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, smiling back. “Yeah, I really fucking do.”

* * *

They call Steve while eating ice cream, sprawled at a wooden picnic table with the warm sun on both of them. Clint sets his phone on the table between them, hits Steve’s number, and stirs his ice cream with a tenseness that belies his relaxed expression.

“Hey, little brother,” Steve says. “What’s up? How’s the trip?”

“Trip’s fine,” Clint says. “Bucky’s here too. You’re on speaker.”

Bucky leans forward. “Hey, Steve.”

There’s a moment of silence. Bucky bites his lip and waits, hands resting on the table, eyes fixed on the phone. He can _feel_ the tension between them, the delicate lines of it curling between here and Portland. A moment of suspension, like the tattoo on Clint’s arm, perfectly balanced to go either way. Either Steve will hang up, or—

“Hi, Bucky,” Steve says. “Good to hear you.”

“You too,” Bucky says, and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Clint smiles, looking just as relieved. “We’ve got news,” he says, taking a bite.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He locks eyes with Bucky and licks his spoon clean, dragging his tongue up the plastic in an _extremely_ suggestive motion. Bucky stifles a snort and reaches over, stealing a spoonful of his ice cream before he can react.

“We’re dating,” he tells Steve, pulling his own cup out of Clint’s reach. “Officially. As of yesterday. Well, last night.”

Clint makes a face at him. “We are,” he says.

Another moment of silence, longer this time. Then Steve says, “Oh, lord.”

It’s the exact tone Bucky had imagined it would be, exasperation mixed with fondness mixed with a little bit of trepidation. Clint starts laughing. “Called it,” he says to Bucky. “You just facepalmed, didn’t you?”

“Did not,” Steve says immediately.

“He did,” chimes in another voice. “I saw it.”

Clint tilts his head. “Is that Tony?”

“No, that’s Sam.” There’s sounds of a scuffle, and then Steve says, “Get outta here, asshole, and go pick up dinner. Let me talk to my brother.”

_Who’s Sam?_ Bucky mouths at Clint, who shrugs and repeats the question to Steve.

“Boyfriend,” Steve says.

“What happened to Tony?”

“He’s still around. He’s in California this week. Some big thing going on in Silicon Valley.”

Clint stares at the phone. “You have _two_ boyfriends now?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice gets a little tenser. “Sorry I didn’t tell you before. We were waiting to see if this was going to work with the three of us before we told anyone. It’s only been a few months.”

Clint looks at Bucky, who shrugs and eats another spoonful. “Good for him.”

He looks back at the phone. “You happy?”

“Definitely.”

“Tony happy?”

“Absolutely.”

“I want to meet Sam, then. I need to approve of him.”

“So get your ass out to Portland, punk.”

“Buy me a ticket, jerk.”

Steve laughs. “I’ll buy two,” he says. “You guys can come out for the holidays if you want. Tony throws a hell of a party.”

“I’m in,” Bucky says. “Clint told me about Christmas last year, and the eggnog incident—”

“What?” Steve yelps. “You little asshole, you _promised_ not to tell anyone—”

“Bucky’s exempt from those promises, you know that.” Clint innocently takes a bite of ice cream. “Besides, no one actually got arrested, and also the whole thing—”

“We’re not talking about it,” Steve interrupts, and Clint snickers. “Changing the topic, right now. So you guys are a thing now, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “You okay with that?”

“Clint makes good choices,” Steve says. “I trust him. If this is what you both want and you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.”

Clint blinks a couple times, sucking on his lip ring. “Oh,” he says after a moment, sounding like he’s been punched in the gut. “I...thanks, Steve.”

“I mean it. I—hang on—” There’s a muffled conversation, and then he comes back on. “I gotta go, kid. Tony’s calling. But I’m happy for you, I really am. I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Sound good,” Clint says, and hangs up.

“Two boyfriends,” Bucky says, scraping out the last of his ice cream. “Huh. I’m surprised he found one person willing to put up with him, let alone two.”

He grins at Clint, who is staring into his ice scream, slowly twirling the spoon around. Bucky nudges him. “You okay?”

“ _Clint makes good choices_ ,” he says quietly, pulling the spoon out, watching the ice cream drip off the end of it. “He said—he said that.”

“He loves you,” Bucky says. “You know that.”

Clint rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, but....”

“I get it,” Bucky tells him quietly. “You don’t have to say it.”

He shrugs and takes a bite. “Just means a lot to hear it, you know. From him.”

“I know.”

They’re quiet for awhile, watching the sun move across the sky. Clint finishes his ice cream, then pulls out one of his sharpies and starts sketching something on one of the paper napkins. It looks sort of like an open film canister, with film spilling out—

“What’s that?”

“Just an idea,” Clint says, suddenly shoving it in his pocket. “Nothing really—just an idea right now.” He recaps the sharpie. “When are you taking Becca to dinner?”

Bucky’s curious, but he doesn’t pursue it further. “Tomorrow. You’re invited.”

“Oh no,” Clint says. “That’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on big brother time.”

“You’re invited,” Bucky says, a little more firmly. “I’m not leaving you with my parents. You’re my boyfriend, and you’re coming with me. Becca will say the same thing. No arguing allowed.”

Clint holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine,” he says, looking happy. “No arguing. You win.”

Bucky’s phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. “Ma wants to know if we’re coming home for dinner,” he says.

“You want to?”

“Not really.” Bucky sighs, picking it up. “I’m gonna tell her we’re meeting up with some old friends and we’ll be home later.”

Clint snorts. “And what are we actually gonna do?”

“Whatever the hell we want,” Bucky says, tossing his phone on the table. “Any ideas?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, suddenly offering a sly smile, and he leans forward. “I got a few.”

* * *

They don’t get back until after dark. Clint parks the car outside the house, then turns it off and pulls the keys out of the ignition. They sit there for a moment, a comfortable silence between them.

“I don’t want to go in,” Bucky admits.

“Me neither.” Clint taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Think your dad’s still pissed about this morning?”

“Definitely. Man holds grudges like nobody’s business.”

He sighs. “How much do I need to grovel to make things easy?”

“It’ll never be enough. He’ll hold it over your head forever. Trust me.” Bucky pats his leg. “Tell him you’re very sorry for swearing at him, and that you won’t do it again. That’ll win my mother over, and then she’ll work on him, and in fifty years he might forgive you.”

Clint laughs. “Alright. I think I can live with that.”

“Might want to hide that, though,” Bucky adds, and reaches over to tug Clint’s jacket a little higher on his neck. “If Ma sees that, you’re gonna get a thousand questions about a girlfriend.”

Clint flushes red and pulls the jacket over the reddish bruise on his neck. “Fuckin’ vampire,” he mutters, and Bucky snickers. “Besides, I already got that routine this morning. It was the first thing she asked me, after asking about Steve.”

“Oh. Sorry. I meant to come down and rescue you.”

“It’s fine. I know she’s just trying to be...nice.” Clint rubs the back of his neck, then zips the jacket up to his throat. “Alright. Let’s do the thing.”

Bucky’s parents are on the couch watching TV when they come in. His mother turns to look at them, then beams and gets to her feet to hug him. “Hi, sweetheart!”

“Hey,” Bucky says, patting her on the back. “Is Becca home?”

“I thought she was with you?”

“No, she went with Pepper and her parents. They’re having a party.”

His father turns, lips pursing in disapproval. “She’s at a party?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “She graduated today, Dad. She’s allowed to have some fun.”

“She’s supposed to be grounded,” his father says, scowling. “Not partying.”

Clint leans over to Bucky as he kicks off his shoes. “Can we ground _him?_ ” he mutters, and Bucky has to turn his laugh into a cough.

“Becca’s a good girl,” his mother says. “Let her have her night, George.” She turns to Bucky. “Did you take pictures?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “But I have to develop them before you can see them, remember? I’ll send you some.”

“Thank you, dear. She looked so beautiful, I would love to have some pictures.” She hugs Clint, too, who looks a little surprised at that. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “It was great. We had a great time. Nice to see some of the old places.” He clears his throat. “Sorry about this morning. It wasn’t cool to yell at you guys like that.”

Bucky’s mother blinks, then hugs him again. “Thank you,” she says. “You’re very sweet for that.” She turns to his dad. “George, did you hear him?”

“I did,” his father says, eyes on the TV. “Don’t let it happen again, young man.”

Clint visibly grits his teeth and nods. “No, sir.”

Bucky flashes him a subtle thumbs-up and motions towards the basement. “We’re gonna go downstairs,” he says. “Yell if you need us.” He grabs Clint’s arm and tugs him towards the door.

“Jesus,” Clint says as soon as they get downstairs. “No offense, Bucky, but your dad’s an asshole.”

“None taken,” Bucky assures him. “I’m _highly_ aware. There’s a reason I’m not around here much anymore.” He sits on the couch and pats the space next to him. “C’mere. We can watch a movie or something.”

Clint sprawls across him, arranging himself half in Bucky’s lap and half stretched out along the cushions. “Could skip the movie and go right to the making out,” he says casually. “Isn’t that what teenagers are supposed to do in their parents’ basement?”

“We’re not teenagers,” Bucky says, poking his nose. “But I think we’re supposed to start the movie, pretend to pay attention, and _then_ move to the making out.”

“Feels like a couple steps backwards from last night,” Clint says with a snicker, and plucks the remote from Bucky’s hand. “Let’s see what’s on, then.”

Bucky watches him, tongue poking absently at his lip ring as he flips through channels. “Hey,” he says. “When I asked how long you wanted this road trip to last, and you said forever...” He brushes a hand through his hair. “Did you mean that?”

“Well,” Clint says, shifting attention from the TV to him. “I know it can’t be forever. But I just...” He trails off, flipping the remote in his hand. “Feel like we’ve been in a little bubble, you know? Like real life is just kind of...on hold.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I get it.” He rubs his metal hand over Clint’s arm, tracing over the tattoos. “It’s been nice.”

“I just don’t want that to end. Don’t want things to be different.”

“What would be different?”

Clint flips the remote in his hand a couple times. “You know. School. Other stuff. You’re graduating. Gonna get a job.”

“I’m staying in the city, Clint. I’m not leaving.”

“I know, but...it’s just all that stuff.” He taps his finger on the remote, then says, “You’re still gonna like me after this, right?”

Bucky snorts. “Of course I am, you idiot. Why wouldn’t I?”

Clint shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, trying to sound flippant and not quite getting there. “I’m—I don’t know. Like I said. This just feels like its own thing, and I wasn’t sure—”

Bucky puts a hand over his mouth. “Stop it,” he says. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, you can cut it out right now. I like you now. I’m still gonna like you when we get back. Gonna like you as long as you’ll let me. Quit overthinking and pick a damn channel so we can move on to the good stuff.”

Clint blinks up at him, eyes swimming with emotions. “Okay,” he says after a moment, pushing Bucky’s hand away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Bucky says, thinking about how Clint had reacted to Steve’s words earlier, and how he’d been so excited about Bucky bringing him two coffees in the motel. “If you need me to say it, I’ll say it. I just don’t want you getting stuck in your head about it. I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t _want_ to be with you. Got it?”

“Okay,” Clint says again, and he looks a little happier about it. “Okay. No more thinking.”

“Good.” Bucky gestures at the TV. “Settle on something, would you?”

“Yeah.” Clint flicks through a few more channels, then grins widely. “There. That’s perfect for you.”

Bucky watches for a few moments. “Is that...why are we watching _Sesame Street?_ ”

“It’s you,” Clint says, pointing at the screen at one of the puppets. “Count von Count.”

Bucky stares at the TV, then at him. “Get out,” he finally says, pointing at the stairs. “Leave. I’m making you sit with my parents as punishment.”

Clint laughs. “I’m just trying to make sure you feel represented.”

Bucky thumbs over the mark on his neck. “You realize that every time you call me a vampire, you’re just asking for more of these, right?”

“You realize I’m into that, right?” Clint shifts suddenly, sitting upright and turning to straddle him, blocking his view of the TV entirely. “Mark me up all you want. I like it. Like knowing you were there.”

“Oh, well if that’s the case.” Bucky tugs his shirt to the side, then leans forward and bites at the smooth junction of his neck and shoulder, going hard enough that Clint sucks in a sharp breath. “There. How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Clint says, shuddering above him. “More.”

“Anything you want,” Bucky promises, and leans forward again.

* * *

They do end up watching a movie at some point, although Bucky doesn’t really pay attention to it anyway. He’s too busy watching the slow and steady rise of Clint’s chest, and the happy look on his face as he settles against Bucky, fingers absently tracing a design over his leg.

Bucky shifts to a better position. “Is there a reason you’re groping me?”

“I’m not groping,” Clint shoots back. “I’m designing.”

“A tattoo?” Bucky asks.

“Maybe.”

He doesn’t say anything else about it, no matter what Bucky bribes him with, and after a while Bucky just gives up and lets him design in peace. Clint will tell him when he’s ready.

“Remember we have fancy dinner tomorrow,” he says as the credits start rolling. “I’ve been saving for this. Do you have something nice to wear?”

“You’re looking at it,” Clint says. “Hope your fancy place likes the Grems.”

Bucky sighs. “We’ll dig something up.” 

* * *

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Clint says, fumbling at his tie. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“You look fantastic,” Bucky says, knocking his hands aside. “You should just keep it, really.”

Clint looks down at his dress clothes—Bucky’s clothes, technically—and snorts. “They’re tight. It’s all tight.”

“That’s why it looks fantastic,” Bucky says, stepping a little closer, subtly pressing his thigh against Clint. “Shows you off a bit.”

“Get off,” Clint grumbles, shoving him backwards. “Tight pants. Not gonna hide anything.”

Bucky snickers and ties the tie for him. “Hands to myself, I promise. Until we get home, anyway. Then you’re fair game.”

“Ah,” Clint says, some mixture of a strangled moan and agreement, and he closes his eyes. “Tight pants. Stop talking about it.”

Bucky snickers again and steps back. “There. You’re good.” He steps back and surveys him. “Yep. I like it.”

“You’d better,” Clint says, muttering something about monkey suits before turning around and going up the stairs. Bucky follows, keeping enough distance to check out his ass.

Yeah. He looks good.

Becca greets them at the top of the stairs. “You clean up nice,” she says to Clint, smirking as he scowls and pulls at his tie again. “You too, Starbucks. I didn’t even know you owned ties.”

Clint laughs. “ _Starbucks?_ ”

“I promised you fancy,” Bucky says, choosing to ignore him. “Fancy is what you get.” He offers an arm to her. “Come on.”

“Wait for me, Starbucks,” Clint says, grabbing his keys.

“You’re not allowed to call me that,” Bucky tells him. “That’s a Becca name.”

“Fine.” Clint thinks for a second. “Barnabucks.”

“That’s not a name.”

“Barnabas Collins.”

Becca makes an excited noise. “You know _Dark Shadows?_ ”

Bucky looks back and forth between them. “What?”

“I love _Dark Shadows_ ,” Clint says. “Great movie.”

“It was terrible,” Becca counters. “But funny.”

Bucky opens the truck door for her. “Does this have something to do with vampires?”

“Possibly,” Clint says, flashing him a wicked grin as Becca steps up in the truck. “I’ll introduce you to it later. You should be more familiar with your peoples’ culture.”

“Think we’ll be too busy later,” Bucky says, lowering his voice. “Because I was planning on getting you out of those tight pants and—”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Clint mutters, and immediately goes to the other side of the truck. Bucky laughs and slides in next to Becca.

The restaurant is the nicest thing Waverly has to offer, and they’re somewhat overdressed for it, but Bucky doesn’t care. “Order whatever you want,” he tells them as they sit at a table.

“Sugar daddy status,” Clint murmurs, perusing the menu, and Bucky has to duck behind his own before he starts laughing.

“Hey,” Becca says, and Bucky looks at her. “Were you serious before? About me coming to New York to live with you?”

Bucky blinks, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, Becks. You can come live with me. I’ve got a line on an apartment already. One of my freelance clients is moving out of his place, he offered to rent it to me. It’s huge, too, and not that far from a couple places I’ve interviewed at. I’m gonna settle things with him once I get back.”

Clint pokes him. “You didn’t say anything about that to me. Who is it?”

“Wade Wilson. And we weren’t dating then,” Bucky says. “Didn’t seem relevant. Also, this is new. Like, within the last two weeks new.”

“Cafeteria guy?”

“Cafeteria guy.”

Clint shakes his head. “There is so much more to him,” he says. “Seriously. Is he like a spy or something? He’s got to be a spy. The cafeteria thing is a cover. It has to be.”

Bucky laughs. “Anyway, Becca, once I get settled, you’re welcome to come live with me.” He smiles at her. “I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”

“Oh!” Clint says suddenly. “I know a place looking for interns. I don’t think they pay super well, but I did a couple wall pieces for them when their new building opened, and I met the CEO. He’s a nice guy. We went out for a beer afterwards.”

Bucky stares at him. “You just...went for drinks? With the CEO? No big deal?”

Clint nods.

“How the fuck do you _do_ that?”

“I’m charming as hell,” Clint says, affecting a terrible southern accent. “Remember?” He grins at Bucky, then turns back to Becca. “Anyway, Dr. Banner is a neat guy, I’d be happy to—”

Becca nearly drops her menu. “You know Bruce Banner?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, sounding a little surprised. “Is that—is that a big deal?”

“You’ve made her life,” Bucky says. “She’s obsessed with him.”

“I am not obsessed.” Becca says, sticking her tongue out at him. “But he’s made huge advances in biomedical engineering, and I’ve been wanting to work at Gamma Enterprises since I was...eight?”

“She asked for a tour there for her birthday,” Bucky tells Clint. “She corrected the tour guides on shit. It was hilarious.”

The waiter appears, cutting off Becca’s response. “Are we all ready to order?”

They order, and Bucky collects the menus to hand to her. “Thank you,” he says, then turns back to find Clint and Becca snickering at him. “What?”

“Red wine,” Clint says.

“And rare steak,” Becca adds.

Bucky looks between them, feeling a headache coming on. “So?”

“You’re such a vampire,” Clint says, and they both start cackling.

Bucky rubs his eyebrows. “I can’t take you guys _anywhere_ ,” he sighs, not sure if he should be glad or terrified that they’re getting along so well. Distantly, he thinks this is probably how Steve felt when they’d called him yesterday.

Clint pats his hand “I’m not sorry,” he says.

“Me neither.” Becca laughs. “Tell me more about Dr. Banner, Clint. I need to know everything.”

“Sure,” Clint says, hand still on Bucky’s, winding their fingers together. “I’d be happy to.”

* * *

Bucky’s surprised to find his mother still up when they get back. She does her usual cooing thing about how great they all look, and makes them pose for a few pictures on her shitty flip phone. Then she motions Bucky into the kitchen. “I need your help, sweetheart. Just for a moment.”

“Go change,” Bucky tells Clint quietly. “I’ll be down in a sec.” He follows her into the kitchen and leans against the table. “What’s the problem?”

“I need your help with the cabinets,” she says, pointing. “The door on that one is broken, and I can’t reach it, and I asked your father a few days ago but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.”

Bucky studies the door for a second. “Just needs the screws tightened,” he says. “You got a—”

She hands him a screwdriver. “Thank you, dear.”

“No problem.” He climbs up on the counter, balancing himself until he can get at them. “This the only one?”

“The other door is loose too,” she admits, leaning against the wall. Bucky glances at her, noting the tight way she’s standing, arms crossed over her chest.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sometime in the morning. Gotta get back for the end of classes.”

She nods. “Will you be coming home for summer?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Ma, I haven’t come back for summer the last four years.”

“I know.” She sounds sad about it.

Bucky tightens the last of the screws. “There.” He hops off the counter and opens the doors a few times, checking to make sure they’ll open right. “Is that it?”

She nods and takes the screwdriver back. “I looked up that award.”

“What award?”

“The photography one.” She puts a hand on his cheek. “I didn’t realize what it was.”

“Oh.” Bucky steps back a little. “Yeah. It’s a pretty big thing.”

“I still don’t know why you didn’t tell us,” she says. “But I’m proud of you. For winning that. I’d like to see the pictures.”

Bucky stares at his mother. “You...you’re _proud_ of me?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so skeptical, but he’s never heard her say that and mean it, in a sincere way. Especially not with the way she’s looking at him right now.

“I won’t pretend I understand why you’re studying that,” she says, and Bucky fights back the urge to sigh. “But I know it’s important to you. And I am very proud of you, James. I always have been.” She smiles at him. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“I...” Bucky says, completely blindsided.“Thanks?”

“I love you,” she says, hugging him. “You’re a good boy.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He just peels himself from her arms, mutters something about going downstairs, and vanishes into the basement as quickly as he can without running.

Clint is sprawled upside-down on the couch, humming to himself as he texts. “You okay?” he asks as Bucky comes down the last few steps. “You look a little freaked.”

“Weird moment. Why are you upside down?”

“ _You’re_ upside down,” Clint says, pointing at him. “It’s all about perspective.”

Bucky snorts as he pulls off his tie. “Right.”

“What was weird?”

“My mother just told me she was proud of me.”

“That is weird.” Clint drops his phone on his face. “Fuck!”

“You okay?”

“You didn’t see that.” Clint flips over, rearranging himself until he’s upright. “Anyway. Are you sure she’s your mom? She wasn’t replaced by aliens?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s her.” Bucky shakes his head. “That was...something.” He eyes Clint. “Who you texting?”

“Steve. Wanted to know if we were serious about coming out for the holidays. Never mind the fact that that’s months away. He’s gotta plan it right now.”

“It’s Steve. Are you really surprised? He’s not exactly Captain Spontaneous.”

“Fair.” Clint looks at his phone again, letting one leg drop to the floor, stretching his pants even tighter. “I told him we’d talk about it when we get back.” He drops the phone to his chest, then smirks. “My eyes are up here, you know.”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky agrees, still looking at his pants. “Speaking of getting back, you good with leaving tomorrow morning? Around nine or so?”

Clint sighs dramatically. “I suppose,” he says. “I demand coffee.”

“Surprising no one,” Bucky says, stepping closer to the couch. “You’ll have coffee. We can stop in town before we go.”

“Yay.” Clint folds his hands behind his head and smirks at Bucky. “Now what?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. You were the one talking about getting me out of my tight pants.” Clint gestures at them. “Go for it.”

Bucky smirks. “Romantic.”

“We went on a date,” Clint says. “Romance is done with. Get over here.”

“That wasn’t a _date_ , my sister was there.”

“Close enough.” Clint pats his thigh, close enough to his dick to make Bucky laugh. “Come here. Try not to trip on the rug this time.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but comes closer. “Your drawings are coming off,” he says, rolling up his left sleeve to show the fading lines.

Clint makes a disappointed noise and sits up, reaching for it. “Damn. I thought they’d last longer.”

“Yeah. You’ll just have to draw new ones.”

His eyes light up. “Really? You’d let me?” He dives for his bag, coming up with his handful of sharpies. “Please?”

Bucky laughs at the sudden change of direction. “What happened to—”

Clint waves a hand. “We’ll call this foreplay.” He taps the sharpies on his palm. “They’re body safe, can I draw on you? I have an idea.”

“Does it have something to do with what you were designing earlier?”

“Yeah.” Clint gives him puppy-dog eyes. “Please?”

“Sure.” Bucky pulls his shirt off, smirking as Clint’s eyes go right to his chest. “You gonna be able to stay focused?”

“I’m very focused,” Clint says innocently, tongue poking at his lip ring. “I’m...planning.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky drapes his shirt over the stairs. “How do you want me?”

Clint swallows hard. “Couch,” he says, eyes already darkening with arousal, and pats his thighs. “Right here.”

Bucky grins and goes to lay across him, positioning himself so his head and chest are in Clint’s lap. “Tight pants,” he murmurs, deliberately shifting his weight.

“Tight pants,” Clint agrees, smoothing a hand over his chest, but he’s got that look in his eye now, the appraising gaze that Bucky only ever sees when he’s studying a blank canvas. “Hold still.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky says, catching his hand and pressing a kiss to the tattooed knuckles. It’s sappy of him, but he doesn’t really care. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Clint says, popping the cap off a sharpie, and drawing a line over Bucky’s skin with his other hand. He smiles. “Glad to hear it.”

* * *

“The hell happened to you?” Becca asks the next morning as Bucky loads up the truck. “Did you lose a fight with a marker?”

“Clint happened,” Bucky says, looking down at the intricate patterns over his skin. He’d thought Clint would go for a picture of something, but instead, he’d done this increasingly complex series of patterns that seem to shift and ripple with Bucky as he moves. They cover his chest, and his arms, and there’s more on his back that he hasn’t seen.

He’s also got a design on his thigh, an open film canister with film spilling out, each square decorated with its own little image. Clint had mumbled something about sharpies not being sharp enough for small design, but Bucky likes it. He’s already planning on asking Clint to design it on paper, already thinking about what it would look like as a tattoo.

There’s a nice handprint on his ass, too, or at least there was last night—Clint’s payback for Bucky deliberately rubbing against his dick every few seconds. “ _Gonna spank you if you don’t knock it off,_ ” he’d warned, and Bucky had wanted to see if he’d follow through or not.

He did. Bucky liked it way more than he’d expected to. He’d stored the thought to explore at a later date and held still after that, letting Clint finish off his work.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, holding out his arms. “Should I make it permanent?”

“I think you’d look great,” she says, tossing Clint’s bag in the back. “Where is Clint, anyway?”

“Kitchen. Still waking up.” Bucky looks back through the open door. “I should go rescue him, I think Dad’s in there.”

“I’ll wait out here.”

Bucky shrugs on his jacket—no point in inviting awkward questions—and goes inside and stifles a laugh at the sight of Clint, who’s got a thousand-yard stare going on while Bucky’s father is lecturing him about something. Bucky steps into the kitchen and loudly clears his throat, making both of them look up. “We’re gonna go,” he says, tugging Clint’s arm. “Come on. We need to hit the road.”

His father nods and sets down his mug of tea. “It was good to see you, James,” he says, offering a hand, and Bucky shakes it, because that’s as close to affection as the two of them are ever going to get. “Mr. Barton, thank you for driving him.”

“Welcome,” Clint mumbles, getting to his feet. He looks at Bucky, expression pleading. “Coffee?”

“Coffee,” Bucky confirms, and nudges him towards the door. “Bye, Dad.”

His mother greets them in the living room. She goes for Clint first, smothering him in a hug that makes Clint go wide-eyed with surprise. He manages to extract himself, nodding and smiling at her _oh thank you so much for bringing James out here it was so good to see both of you please drive safe_ monologue.

“James,” she says, turning to Bucky and hugging him too. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you too, Ma,” Bucky says, patting her on the back. “Thanks for letting us stay here.”

“Of course, James. You know you’re welcome anytime.”

Bucky goes back outside, where Clint and Becca are exchanging phone numbers. “I’ll send you that video,” he says. “You’ll love it. And I’ll send your stuff to Bruce. He’ll contact you in a couple days.”

Becca makes some kind of exciting flailing shriek and just about tackles Clint, who barely manages to hold her up. “I love you,” she says. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” She points a finger at Bucky. “You’re not allowed to break up with him, ever.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Bucky says, and Clint beams at him.

Becca hugs him, then, thin arms tight around his chest. “I love you too,” she says. “So much. Thank you for coming.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Bucky says. “I’ll call you when the apartment’s ready. Hang tight, okay? You’re almost out.”

“Already got a bag packed,” she says, kissing his cheek. “Drive safe. Text me every hour.”

“I promise.”

They get in the truck, and Bucky waves to Becca until she’s out of sight. Clint drives right for the coffee shop, beelines in, and emerges with two overly large cups. “Okay,” he says, settling one in the cup holder. “I’ve had a thought.”

“You? A thought? _Before_ coffee?”

“Shut up,” Clint says, sticking his tongue out. “Look, I told my professors I wouldn’t be back until next week. And I know you took the whole week off.”

“I did.”

Clint shrugs and takes a sip of the other coffee. “I know the road trip can’t last _forever_ ,” he says. “But there’s a couple cool art museums in Chicago I want to see, and a photography one I think you’d like. And there’s this one in Cleveland, too, and—” He sucks on his lip ring, suddenly looking unsure. “If you want to. I just—I want to do this a little bit longer.”

“Nothing’s changing,” Bucky says slowly. “When we get back. I told you—”

“I know. I just...” Clint gestures vaguely with one hand. “Want to not think about real life for a little longer.”

Bucky studies him. Remembers how he’d mentioned the meeting next week, about maybe being held back, and how he’d looked so worried at the thought of it.

“I’m not running away,” Clint says, looking right back at him, reading him like a book. “But if we don’t have to be back, can we just...not? Just for a little bit?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and Clint’s shoulders relax instantly. “I’d like that.”

“Awesome.” Clint starts the truck again, and pulls out onto the road. “Which way’s the highway from here?”

“Northeast,” Bucky says, and Clint sighs in exasperation, rubbing his nose.

“I don’t know what I expected from you,” he mutters.

“And now you know how I feel when you call me a vampire.”

“I do.” He casts a sly look at Bucky. “Not gonna stop, though.”

“Hope you never need directions, then.”

Clint laughs as he navigates through the streets. “This is gonna be fun, isn’t it?”

Bucky thinks about it. Thinks about visiting museums, and stopping for food, and playing shitty Gremlin 47 music on the way. Thinks about sleeping in motels, and watching Clint wake up in the morning. Thinks about how he’d just agreed to more driving without a second thought, because he trusts Clint to keep him safe wherever they’re going.

“It’s gonna be fucking amazing,” Bucky says, and Clint’s whole face lights up with a smile.

“Hell yeah it is,” he says, and pulls the truck onto the highway, the open road stretching out before them like a future—sunlit and shining and brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Bêta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/). Thank you!
> 
> This artwork and banner done by [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/) and [clintscoffeepot](https://clintscoffeepot.tumblr.com/).


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